ADAM  OF  DUBLIN 

A  ROMANCE  OF  TO-DAY 


by 

CONAL  O'RIORDAN 

CNORREYS  CONNELL') 


AD  MAJOREM  DEI  GLORIAM 


NEW  YORK 

HARCOURT,  BRACE  AND  HOWE 
1920 


COPYRIGHT,    I92O.    BY 
HARCOURT,    BRACE  AND  HOWE,   INC. 


BODEN  COMPANY 


TO  JANE 

MY  DEAR  JANE,— Your  name  shall  not  be  set  forth  at 
the  head  of  this  page  lest  you  should  blush  to  find  it 
coupled  in  the  public  mind  with  my  book.  Yet  there  is 
in  it  nothing  more  shocking  than  has  happened  in  my 
own  life,  and  you  have  told  me  (though  indeed  I  took 
this  to  be  courtesy  rather  than  the  expression  of  your 
sober  opinion)  you  could  not  think  of  yourself  ever  being 
shocked  by  me. 

It  is  the  essential  of  a  figure  in  art  that  it  should  be 
the  common  measure  of  many  figures  in  life,  and  yet  be 
unmistakably  itself.  Jack  Falstaff  is  not  Tom  Jones, 
nor  Arthur  Pendennis,  nor  Mr.  Britling:  withal,  these 
too  true  portraits  of  English  gentlemen  have  a  little 
Falstaff  in  them.  All  but  the  very  few  who  know  me 
may  take  it  that  Adam  is  in  a  sense  myself.  He  is 
not.  But  I  remember  '  when  that  I  was  an  a  little  tiny 
boy,'  looking  through  my  nursery  window  upon  such 
another  little  boy,  only  in  rags,  across  the  street,  and 
unsettling  my  nurse's  religion  by  demanding  which  of  the 
two  was  really  I.  Since  then  I  have  often  asked  my- 
self whether  this  other  boy,  so  well  remembered  as  he 
sprawled,  wistfully,  animal  like  on  his  hard  doorstep, 
was  not  my  alter  ego  and  perhaps  Adam  of  Dublin's 
physical  procreator  as  I  am  his  spiritual  begetter. 

However  that  may  be,  Adam,  albeit  launched  into 

2057395 


iv  TO  JANE 

life  in  a  more  sordid  environment  than  that  in  which 
I  first  remember  to  have  found  myself,  was  a  better 
and  even  more  fortunate  child  than  I,  besides  enjoying 
the  inestimable  advantage  of  being  born  a  generation 
later  in  this  our  time.  To  this  you  will  perhaps  demur; 
for  you  have  hinted  to  me  that  Old  Times  were  Best. 
With  this  I  profoundly  disagree :  I  despise  that  miserable 
year  seven  centuries  since,  when  your  forbears  built 
their  castle  in  a  certain  windy  corner  of  Ireland,  the 
more  efficiently  to  cut  the  throats  of  mine.  ...  I 
devotedly  admire  the  good  year  1919,  when  that  petti- 
fogging business  the  Great  War  was  wound  up,  and  I 
kissed  your  hand,  and  you  put  roses  through  my  letterbox 
in  a  London  suburb. 

And  so,  whether  you  value  the  gift  or  not,  I  offer 
you  this  picture  of  the  life  of  the  world  to-day,  as  it 
is  reflected  in  that  facet  of  the  Universe,  the  Capital  of 
our  own  country. 

For  Adam,  I  admonish  you,  is  a  universal  figure,  if 
not  of  the  present,  then  of  the  future:  if  that  were  not 
my  conviction,  he  had  not  escaped  Father  Tudor  nor 
the  waters  that  drowned  Fan  Tweedy. 
Believe  me  to  be, 

My  dear  Jane, 

Your  very  obedient,  humble  servant, 
LONDON,  CONAL  O'RIORDAN, 

19th  March,  1920. 


CONTENTS 


CHAPTER 

PAGE 

I. 

IN  THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  PRO-CATHEDRAL      . 

3 

II. 

HOW     ADAM      EMBRACED     THE      CAREER     OF 

11 

III. 

ADAM  CRIES  OLD  NEWS  IN  STEPHEN'S  GREEN 

20 

IV. 

THE  TRUTH  ABOUT  THE  OLD  LADY  . 

33 

V. 

ROME  AND  GENEVA    

47 

VI. 

BUTT  BRIDGE        

59 

VII. 

MARLBOROUGH       STREET       AND       GARDINER'S 

STREET     

67 

VIII. 

79 

IX. 

THE  MOTHER  OF  MERCY   

88 

X. 

MOTHER   GOOSE'S   FAIRY  TALES 

97 

XI. 

THE   PRICE  OF  CONVALESCENCE 

102 

XII. 

114 

XIII. 

THE  RETURN   OF  THE  PRODIGAL      .          .    >     . 

125 

XIV. 

MR.     MACFADDEN     IS     DISPLEASED     BY     HIS 

FAMILY   AND   THE   ABBEY   THEATER    . 

133 

XV. 

MR.     MACFADDEN'S    LAST    PROGRESS    AND 

EPITAPH           

155 

XVI. 

PLEASANT   STREET      ....... 

164 

XVII. 

THE  HAPPIEST  DAY    .          .          .          . 

174 

XVIII. 

THE  DAYS  THAT   FOLLOWED     .... 

181 

XIX. 

JOSEPHINE           

188 

XX. 

FATHER  TUDOR  ARRIVES    . 

198 

vi  CONTENTS 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

XXI.  THE    MISTLETOE    BOUGH           ....  207 

xxii.  THE  BULL'S  EYE  LANTERN  BURNS  OUT      .  218 

XXIII.  THE  JESUIT  BOY'S  SHORT  WAY  TO   HEAVEN  229 

XXIV.  THE   CHURCH    MILITANT          ....  240 
XXV.  ADAM   CROSSES  THE  LIFFEY    ....  256 

XXVI.  FATHER  INNOCENT  GOES         .          .          ;  266 

XXVII.  THAT   FRENCHMAN 274 

XXVIII.  ADAM   BECOMES  A   MAN  OF  THE  WORLD       .  283 

XXIX.  THE   LAST  OF  FATHER   INNOCENT           .          .  300 

XXX.  MR.   MACARTHY  AT   HOME      ....  317 

XXXI.  THE   DEAD    LOVER    .          .  329 


ADAM  OF  DUBLIN 


CHAPTER  I 
IN  THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  PRO-CATHEDRAL 

IN  the  capital  of  what  is  believed  by  many  to  be  the 
fairest,  if  not  the  most  extensive  kingdom  of  Europe, 
and  it  may  not  be  concealed  from  the  reader,  is  Ireland, 
there  lived  not  so  long  ago  a  tailor  named  Macfadden. 
He  enjoyed  the  distinction  of  being  perhaps  the  tallest 
and  almost  certainly  the  thirstiest  of  his  trade  in  Dublin ; 
but  it  is  doubtful  if  he  were  one  of  the  best.  His  profits, 
had  he  devoted  them  to  that  end  (which  he  did  not), 
were  barely  sufficient  to  provide  for  himself,  his  wife, 
and  a  son  with  whom  he  had  been,  somewhat  unex- 
pectedly blessed.  This  son  was  duly  christened,  at  the 
Pro-Cathedral,  that  architectural  hybrid  of  Athens  and 
Rome,  which  is  dedicated  to  St.  Mary  of  the  Immaculate 
Conception,  and  is  the  commanding  feature  in  the  decora- 
tive scheme  of  Marlborough  Street  and  the  adjacent 
stews.  He  was  given  the  names  of  Adam  Byron  O'Toole 
Dudley  Wyndham  and  Innocent,  to  add  to  that  of  Mac- 
fadden. His  godfather,  Mr.  Byron  O'Toole,  an  acquaint- 
ance of  Mrs.  Macfadden's,  boasting  ancient  if  obscure 
descent,  had  linked  with  his  own  name  those  of  one  or 
two  Englishmen  of  blood,  whose  intimacy  he  had  en- 
joyed when,  as  an  extra  waiter,  he  had  frequented  the 
Castle.  His  godmother,  Miss  or  Mrs.  Robinson,  an 
3 


4  ADAM  OF  DUBLIN 

acquaintance  of  Mr.  O'Toole's  (Mrs.  Macfadden  having 
no  lady  friend  worthy  of  the  name)  had  suggested  that 
he  be  called  Innocent,  after  her  spiritual  adviser,  Father 
Innocent  Feeley;  and  Mr.  Macfadden  insisted  on  the 
precedence  of  his  own  choice,  Adam. 

Adam  was  the  name  of  one  of  Mr.  Macfadden's,  scan- 
dal said,  too  famous  brothers ;  who,  having  gone  to  Africa 
as  a  private  in  the  army,  to  be  heard  of  by  his  relatives 
no  more,  was  believed  by  Mr.  Malachy  Macfadden,  the 
tailor,  to  have  amassed  a  large  fortune.  "If  the  truth 
was  known  now,"  he  would  say,  "  I  wouldn't  wonder  now 
if  my  brother  Adam  wasn't  Dr.  Jim  or  Eckstein,  or  it 
might  be  old  Rhodes  itself.  .  .  .  D'ye  mind  that  million 
pounds,  or  whatever  it  was  now,  that  Rhodes  gave  Par- 
nell  for  the  Party  ?  That  was  my  brother  Adam  all  over. 
He  was  always  a  .  .  ."  and  here  followed  a  rough  and 
ready  estimate  of  his  brother's  intellect. 

The  Macfaddens,  as  will  be  understood,  were  pious 
people;  and  they  lived  under  the  shadow  of  the  sacred 
fane  where  their  son  had  made  his  first  appearance  in 
Irish  society.  Mr.  O'Toole  dwelt  in  the  immediate 
neighborhood:  previous  to  the  birth  of  our  hero  he  had 
been  the  tenant  of  a  cozy  corner  in  the  apartment  of  the 
Macfaddens:  thence  he  moved  to  a  house  where  dwelt 
the  infant's  godmother.  It  would  not  advantage  the 
reader  to  indicate  more  precisely  the  spot,  as  the  names  of 
these  streets  are,  by  the  whim  of  contending  authorities, 
frequently  changed,  and  you  may  go  to  bed  in  Orange 
Street  to  wake  up  in  Green.  Let  us  say  that  the  Mac- 
fadden domain  lay  in  an  alley  off  the  commercial  artery 


SHADOW  OF  THE  PRO-CATHEDRAL        5 

called  by  some  such  name  as  Count  Street,  where  a  great 
business  was  done  by  the  trams  carrying  people  anxious 
to  get  away  from  it ;  while  more  to  the  north  and  east 
lay  Mr.  O'Toole  and  Miss  or  Mrs.  Robinson,  in  one  of 
a  group  of  houses  to  which  we  may  give  the  name  of 
Mountjoy  Court.  Mr.  O'Toole  preferred  Mountjoy 
Court  to  Count  Street;  partly  because  it  was  more 
grandiosely  planned,  if  in  worse  repair,  and  partly  be- 
cause it  had  once  been  the  residence  of  a  nobleman,  and 
was  actually  still  occasionally  visited  by  members  of  the 
aristocracy. 

Despite  the  piety  of  his  parents,  who  were  not  so 
mean  spirited  as  to  spoil  their  child  by  a  parsimonious 
administration  of  the  porter  bottle  that  served  them  for 
a  rod,  young  Adam  B.  O'T.  D.  W.  I.  Macfadden  had 
not  turned  out  a  credit  to  them.  He  had  the  aspect  of 
one  who,  from  the  beginning,  had  been  neglected  by  his 
mother  and  altogether  escaped  the  notice,  the  favorable 
notice,  of  his  father.  Even  by  the  standard  of  Marl- 
borough  Street,  he  was  a  dirty  child :  though  it  would  be 
unjust  to  suggest  that  Mr.  Macfadden  used  upon  his  own 
person  that  share  of  soap  and  water  due  to  his  son :  nor 
did  Mrs.  Macfadden's  comparative  cleanliness  throw 
any  luster  on  her  reputation  in  Count  Street,  where  that 
quality  was  regarded  as  remote  from,  or  even  perhaps 
hostile  to  Godliness. 

It  was  not  Adam's  bituminous  coloring  that  troubled 
the  hearts  of  his  parents:  it  was  his  dissolute  and  un- 
trustworthy character.  When  he  had  passed  the  age 
of  seven  years,  at  which  it  is  reasonable  for  a  young 


6  ADAM  OF  DUBLIN 

man  to  support  his  parents,  he  was  barely  able  to  do 
more  than  keep  his  father  in  tobacco  and  provide  for 
his  own  expensive  maintenance,  by  the  profits  from  the 
sale  of  extinct  evening  papers  to  those  too  charitable,  too 
phlegmatic,  or  too  slow  of  foot,  to  resent  effectively  the 
transaction.  His  father  more  particularly  was  aggrieved 
that  the  boy  seldom  accounted  at  home  for  a  larger  sum 
of  money  than  was  represented  by  the  face  value  of  the 
articles  he  had  sold.  Returning  one  evening,  with  a  bottle 
of  porter  from  his  club,  he  took  him  severely  to  task: 
"  Now  I  seen  you  myself  with  my  own  eyes,  so  there's 
no  mistake  now,  there  in  O'Connell  Street  it  was  now,  out- 
side the  Gresham  Hotel  I  saw  you,  with  my  own  eyes,  sell- 
ing the  Telegram  ..." 

"  Telegraph"  interjected  the  young  hopeful,  foolishly 
desirous  of  a  precision  hateful  to  his  elder's  soul. 

"  Telemiyelbo,"  returned  Mr.  Macfadden  fierily :  "  will 
you  tell  me  I  didn't  see  it  with  my  own  eyes  ?  " 

"What  the  hell  did  you  see?"  inquired  Mrs.  Mac- 
fadden, who  sometimes  betrayed  impatience  in  the  home 
circle. 

"  I  seen  him  sell  a  Telegram  to  Father  Muldoon  him- 
self. And  you  needn't  tell  me  now  that  a  grand  man  like 
that,  the  head  of  the  Jesuits  he  is,  and  a  friend  of 
Murphy's,  would  give  you  no  more  than  a  halfpenny  for 
the  love  of  God." 

"  He  gave  me  nothing  at  all,"  said  Adam. 

Indignation  carried  Mr.  Macfadden's  voice  an  octave 
upwards:  "Will  you  tell  me  that  the  holy  man  would 
go  and  cheat  an  innocent  child  for  the  sake  of  a  copper 


SHADOW  OF  THE  PRO-CATHEDRAL         7 

or  two?  "...  As  Adam  contumaciously  held  his  opinion 
on  this  subject  to  himself,  his  elder  roared  "  Now  didn't 
I  see  you  put  the  paper  in  his  holy  hand?  " 

"  He  gave  it  back  to  me,"  was  the  child's  perplexing 
answer. 

But  Mr.  Macfadden  seldom  allowed  himself  to  be  per- 
plexed :  "  I  thought  it  was  your  own  fault,"  he  snorted, 
"letting  him  see  what  it  was  before  he  paid  you  for 
it." 

"  Did  his  reverence  make  no  excuse  for  not  buying 
it  after  he'd  asked  for  it?"  Mrs.  Macfadden  inquired 
searchingly. 

"  No,"  said  Adam.  "  He  just  told  me  to  run  home  and 
tell  me  parients  not  to  send  me  out  swindling  people 
any  more." 

"  Impident  old  scut ! "  cried  Mr.  Macfadden,  and 
emptied  the  porter  bottle.  "  If  I  ever  catch  you  selling 
him  anything  again,  I  warn  you  now  I'll  cut  your  back. 
Bringing  disgrace  on  us  all  with  your  foolishness,  I 
call  it." 

Mrs.  Macfadden  eyed  her  husband  without  respect: 
"  Sure,  how  could  his  reverence  tell  where  the  lad  came 
from?" 

The  tailor  rounded  on  her :  "  And  now  why  couldn't 
he  tell  as  well  as  I  could  or  any  one  else?  You'd  think 
that  just  because  he  was  a  holy  father  with  a  tall  hat 
on  him,  he  was  too  grand  to  know  anything.  .  .  .  Now 
what  d'ye  think  he's  there  and  paid  for  if  it  isn't  to  give 
his  money  to  them  that  deserves  it  ?  .  .  .  And  there  he 
goes  now  behaving  like  and  worse  than  any  old  Prodestan 


8  ADAM  OF  DUBLIN 

that  never  heard  the  name  of  Christian  charity."  .  .  . 
He  turned  to  Adam :  "  Did  you  ever  know  a  Prodestan 
itself  to  do  the  like  of  that?  " 

"I  never  gave  them  the  chance,"  said  Adam,  with  a 
reckless  air;  but  his  mother  noticed  his  gray  face  tinge 
with  ruddy  brick. 

"  There,  there,"  said  she,  "  don't  you  be  putting  ideas 
into  the  boy's  head,  or  we'll  be  having  him  prostutelized 
on  us  one  of  these  fine  days." 

"  Don't  provoke  me,  woman,"  shouted  Mr.  Macfadden, 
clutching  the  porter  bottle,  "with  your  letting  on  to 
think  that  a  son  of  mine  would  ever  go  and  be  a  bloody 
turncoat." 

"  I  never  said  he  was  a  son  of  yours,"  returned  Mrs. 
Macfadden,  and  the  conversation  took  a  direction  in 
which  Adam  Byron  O'Toole  Dudley  Wyndham  Innocent 
was  not  called  upon  to  follow  it. 

He  willingly  retired  into  that  corner  of  the  room  once 
tenanted  by  his  godfather,  where  now  lay  the  cunning 
arrangement  of  old  sacks,  disused  garments,  and  refuse 
from  his  own  and  his  father's  stock-in-trade,  which 
served  him,  as  it  might  a  pig,  for  a  bed.  There  he  lay 
and  fitfully  slumbered  while  the  controversy  between  his 
parents  raged  high  and  low.  He  was  used  to  these  de- 
bates and  had  lost  interest  in  them  even  when  he  himself 
furnished  the  basis  of  discussion.  He  knew  that  his 
mother,  despite  her  shortness  of  temper,  had  certain 
amiable  qualities  which  would  ensure  her  an  eventual 
peace  without  crushing  defeat,  or  even  with  moral 
victory. 


SHADOW  OF  THE  PRO-CATHEDRAL        9 

And  to-night  as  always  within  his  experience,  he  heard 
Mr.  and  Mrs.  Macfadden  finish  their  conversation  cozily 
in  bed.  "  It's  all  very  well  for  you,  my  love,"  said  she, 
"  to  laugh  at  me  for  being  silly.  But  I'd  die  of  shame  if 
he  was  got  hold  of  by  Lady  Bland.  Father  Innocent 
told  Emily  Robinson  that  she  was  the  worst  woman  in 
Dublin." 

"  Lady  Blandmiyelbo ! "  returned  Mr.  Macfadden,  with 
homely  affability,  and  the  report  of  a  hearty  kiss  sig- 
naled to  Adam  that  the  family  equilibrium  was  for  the 
moment  restored.  So,  like  the  good  little  Catholic  he 
had  learned  to  proclaim  himself  to  a  musical  accompani- 
ment every  Sunday  in  the  Pro-Cathedral,  he  said  a  short 
prayer  to  the  Blessed  Virgin,  to  protect  him  that  night 
and  for  ever  after  from  the  machinations  of  the  unspeak- 
able Lady  Bland. 

He  then  went  to  sleep  and  dreamed  that  her  ladyship 
was  something  between  a  unicorn  and  a  road-roller,  with 
several  tails,  to  each  of  which  was  tied  a  flaming  sardine- 
tin,  and  as  many  heads,  crowned  by  helmets  of  that 
fashion  affected  by  the  Dublin  Metropolitan  Police. 
Her  ladyship  had  run  him  down  in  Mount  joy  Court, 
and,  obsequiously  assisted  by  Mr.  O'Toole,  was  about 
to  put  him  into  one,  or  perhaps  more,  of  the  sardine- 
tins,  when  he  woke  with  a  scream,  was  soundly 
chastised  by  Mr.  Macfadden  with  the  fortunately  con- 
venient porter  bottle;  and,  after  he  had  recovered 
from  the  shock,  fell  into  a  peaceful  and  refreshing 
slumber. 

So  far,  he  had  an  easy  conscience;  but  already  he 


io  ADAM  OF  DUBLIN 

knew  tHat  not  it,  nor  even  the  intercession  of  Holy  Mary 
ever  Virgin,  could  protect  him  from  evil  dreams.  And 
again  he  had  dreams  he  deemed  sublime,  though  he  knew 
not  that  word  nor  waking,  could  recall  what  were  these 
wonderful  things  he  dreamed. 


CHAPTER  II 

HOW  ADAM  EMBRACED  THE  CAREER  OF 
JOURNALISM 

ADAM  MACFADDEN,  when  his  unworthiness  to  be  their 
offspring  was  not  too  severely  brought  home  to  him  by 
his  good  parents,  usually  slept  well.  Even  at  eight 
years  old,  as  has  been  shown,  his  failings  as  a  son  and 
as  a  citizen  did  not  unduly  trouble  his  conscience.  He 
had  known  a  time  when  the  other  merchants  of  evening 
papers  had  made  a  parade  of  warning  the  public  against 
his  wares,  as  being  of  an  outmoded  character,  but  he 
suspected  this  outcry,  which  often  took  an  ill-natured 
form,  to  spring  from  a  spirit  of  rivalry  rather  than  a 
true  concern  for  the  commonweal.  Thus  they  had  no 
hesitation  in  demanding  high  premiums  for  their  jour- 
nals under  the  color  of  their  containing  matter  which 
the  editors  had  failed  to  insert ;  while  Adam  never  cried 
any  news  not  actually  to  be  found  in  his  paper,  and  having 
the  historic  past  to  draw  upon,  he  was  careful  to  offer  no 
sheet  for  sale  which  did  not  contain  something  of  more 
than  passing  interest.  He  dinned  again  and  again  into 
the  ears  of  a  forgetful  people  the  melancholy  tidings  of 
the  decease  of  Queen  Victoria,  or  the  epoch  marking 
news  of  the  relief  of  Mafeking.  For  many  years 
after  their  first  production  these  attractions  held  a 
secure  place  in  Adam's  repertory ;  not  until  all  his  stock 


12  ADAM  OF  DUBLIN 

treating  of  them  was  exhausted  were  they  finally  with- 
drawn. 

The  happy  thought  of  specializing  in  good  and  inter- 
esting, as  apart  from  merely  fresh,  news  had  not,  we 
must  confess,  originated  with  Adam  himself ;  nor  had  he 
to  thank  his  parents  for  it.  Mr.  Macfadden  was  not  so 
much  a  man  of  literary  taste  as  a  realist  in  his  ideas :  he 
would  have  preferred  to  see  Adam  employed  in  con- 
nection with  almost  any  one  of  the  public-houses  between 
Nelson's  Pillar  and  Amiens  Street  Station;  for  he  be- 
lieved that,  with  application,  a  lad  starting  thus  might 
easily  rise  to  be  proprietor  of  Guinness's  Brewery.  Mrs. 
Macfadden  was,  however,  obstinately  opposed  to  this 
scheme,  which,  for  the  rest,  Mr.  Macfadden  had  not 
sufficient  influence  to  put  into  execution  by  himself.  He 
appealed  to  Mr.  O'Toole,  whose  opinion  he  knew  to  weigh 
heavily  in  his  family  circle,  enjoying  as  he  did  the  entree 
everywhere. 

"  I'd  be  the  last  one  in  the  world  to  come  between 
man  and  wife,"  said  the  judicious  Mr.  O'Toole.  "  But 
if  the  lad  were  a  lad  of  mine — which  he  is  not — I'd  be 
sorry  to  see  him  trapezing  around  the  pubs  of  Count 
Street  when  he  might  be  associating  with  the  gentry  in 
Stephen's  Green." 

"Is  it  Saint  Stephen's  Green?"  protested  Mr.  Mac- 
fadden, with  little  faith.  "And  what  gentry  would  be 
associating  with  him  there,  unless  the  ducks  and  drakes 
in  the  muddy  pond  ?  " 

"  Have  you  never  heard  tell  of  the  Shelbourne  Hotel  ?  " 
asked  Mr.  O'Toole,  not  without  hauteur. 


THE  CAREER  OF  JOURNALISM  13 

"  Shelbournemiyelbo !  "  said  Mr.  Macfadden,  which  was 
understood  by  his  interlocutor  to  convey  a  more  or  less 
emphatic  affirmative. 

"Well,  then,"  Mr.  O'Toole  said  easily:  "the  Shel- 
bourne  Hotel — that's  the  place  for  him  to  go." 

"To  be  a  potboy  there,  is  it?"  Mr.  Macfadden  in- 
quired, overcome  by  a  sudden  delusion  of  grandeur. 

Mr.  O'Toole  recalled  him  to  the  drab  facts  of  life: 
"  To  use  your  own  elegant  vocabulary,  the  word  is  pot- 
boymiyelbo,"  said  he.  "  D'ye  expect  your  little  snot  of 
a  son  to  begin  at  the  top  of  the  tree?  .  .  .You'll  find 
that  like  the  best  and  bravest  of  us  he'll  have  to  climb 
the  ladder  from  the  bottom  of  the  page." 

"  Ah,  what  are  you  talking  about  ? "  broke  in  Mrs. 
Macfadden :  "  I'll  not  have  a  son  of  mine  wearin'  buttons 
and  maybe  waiting  on  Prodestans." 

"  Faith  if  he  did  wear  buttons  his  appearance  might 
be  the  more  respectable,"  replied  Mr.  O'Toole.  "And 
isn't  his  lordship's  grace  the  Lord  Lieutenant  a 
Protestant  ?  " 

"  The  Lord  Mayor's  a  Catholic,"  returned  Mr.  Mac- 
fadden, with  a  pride  that  was  at  once  municipal  and 
religious. 

Young  Adam  and  even  his  mother  felt  that  he  had 
here  scored  a  debating  point,  but  Mr.  O'Toole  brushed 
his  argument  contemptuously  aside:  "Would  you  com- 
pare that  old  plumber,  Tim  Horlock,  that  might  be 
stuck  with  his  nose  up  your  drain  pipe  this  very  mo- 
ment, if  he  wasn't  an  Ancient  Hibernian,  with  the 
Honorable  Lord  Marquis  of  Letchworth  that  has 


14  ADAM  OF  DUBLIN 

more  pounds  in  his  pocket  than  Tim  has  hair  on  hii 
calves  ?  " 

"A  marquis  you  might  say  is  almost  more  than  a 
duke,"  Mr.  Macf adden  admitted :  "  I  won't  say  whether  I 
wouldn't  mind  Adam  waiting  on  the  Marquis  of  Letch- 
worth." 

"  Nobody  axed  you,"  said  Mr.  O'Toole.  "  And  if  you 
think  his  lordship  would  demean  himself  to  be  found 
dead  at  the  Shelbourne  Hotel  you're  mighty  mistaken." 

"  Arrah  then  what  are  you  talking  about  ?  "  Mr.  Mac- 
fadden  grumbled.  He  found  Mr.  O'Toole's  train  of 
thought  altogether  too  bewildering.  "If  the  Shelbourne 
Hotel  isn't  a  place  for  a  gentleman,  no  son  of  mine  will 
be  going  there." 

"Will  you  hold  your  gob  and  let  Mr.  O'Toole  hear 
himself  talk?"  suggested  Mrs.  Macf  adden. 

"If  you  insist  on  my  advice,  it's  tra's,"  said  the 
courtier.  "  Let  the  boy  get  a  sheaf  of  evening  papers, 
not  Telegraphs,  mind  you,  which  only  Cat'lics  ever  look 
at,  but  the  Modi,  which  is  the  paper  of  the  aristocracy, 
and  the  Herald  which  does  thrim  both  ways,  and  go  and 
learn  good  manners  selling  them  to  the  society  coming  in 
and  out  of  the  Shelbourne  Hotel  and  the  clubs  contagious 
to  the  same." 

"  Where  would  I  get  a  sheaf  of  papers  ?  "  Mr.  Mac- 
f adden  cried,  "  that  can't  even  get  a  bit  of  stuff  for  my- 
self with  all  them  Jew  emporiums  cutting  the  room  from 
under  my  head.  And  if  I  did  I'm  told  there  isn't  fifty 
per  cent  to  be  made  out  of  any  newspaper  in  Ireland." 

"How  does  Murphy  do  it?"  asked  Mrs.  Macf  adden. 


THE  CAREER  OF  JOURNALISM  15 

"That's  not  the  papers  only,"  her  husband  explained; 
"  'tis  the  thrams  and  Clery's  and  the  papers  altogether. 
Says  the  Herald:  'Go  to  Clery's'  and  the  thrams  are 
waiting  there  to  take  them  to  Clery's,  and  so  to  Clery's 
they  go  and  spend  all  their  money,  and  'tis  Murphy  has  it, 
bad  luck  to  him." 

"The  crawling  snake,"  commented  Mrs.  Macfadden; 
"  not,  mind  you,  but  I'd  like  to  be  Mrs.  Murphy." 

"  Maybe  you're  as  good  as  her  if  all  was  known,"  said 
Mr.  Macfadden  darkly ;  "  but  that  won't  buy  us  the  sheaf 
of  papers ;  for  I'm  no  millionaire." 

"  You  can  buy  them  for  less  than  giving  away  if 
you  know  where  to  go  for  them,"  Mr.  O'Toole  informed 
them. 

"Where  would  that  be?"  asked  Mr.  Macfadden,  re- 
spectful in  the  presence  of  a  trade  secret. 

"  You  leave  that  to  me,"  replied  Mr.  O'Toole,  enjoy- 
ing his  vantage  ground  and  cocking  his  eye  unperceived 
at  Mrs.  Macfadden. 

She  threw  him  an  admiring  glance:  "I  know  what 
he  means,"  said  she.  "  The  old  waste  paper  that  grand 
people  get  rid  of  in  dread  of  the  bugs  and  the  butchers 
buy  to  wrap  sausages." 

"You've  put  it  in  words  I  would  not  use  myself," 
said  Mr.  O'Toole,  "  but  your  woman's  wit  has  fathomed 
my  meaning." 

"I  was  afraid  you  were  after  burglary,"  Mr.  Mac- 
fadden confessed.  "  And  that's  a  thing  I  wouldn't  hear 
of,  even  if  there  was  money  in  it,  which  there  is  not.  But 
of  course  if  you  find  the  goods,  I  don't  mind  saying 


16  ADAM  OF  DUBLIN 

that  I've  nothing  against  Adam  handling  them  as  your 
agent,  me  having  no  responsibility  beyond  seeing  that 
he  doesn't  spend  the  money,  supposing  there  is  any, 
and  you'll  excuse  me  for  doubting  it,  on  himself." 

"  Done,"  said  Mr.  OToole.  "  There's  a  bargain  now, 
and  we'll  have  a  drop  all  round."  As  despite  his  hearty 
tone,  he  did  not  offer  to  provide  it,  Mrs.  Macfadden 
produced  a  bottle  from  under  the  mattress. 

"  The  blessing  of  God  on  it,"  responded  Mr.  Macfad- 
den, adding,  as  an  afterthought :  "  But  I'm  thinking  it's 
not  the  Shelbourne  Hotel  but  to  Richmond  Asylum  you 
will  have  to  go  to  find  any  one  fool  enough  to  buy  the 
same  old  paper  over  and  over  again." 

Mr.  O'Toole  turned  sarcastically  to  Mrs.  Macfadden: 
"  Himself  has  a  want  of  imagination  must  be  a  sad  trial 
to  you,"  said  he. 

Mrs.  Macfadden  shrugged  her  shoulders,  murmuring: 
"I've  worse  to  put  up  with  than  that."  And  Adam 
wondered  why  his  mother  winked  across  her  tumbler 
at  his  superb  godfather. 

Mr.  Macfadden's  hand  crashed  down  upon  the  table: 
"  Imaginemiyelbo !  Would  any  one  but  a  lunatic  jackass 
born  and  bred  be  contented  to  pay  a  halfpenny  every 
day  of  his  life  to  read  about  the  assassination  of  King 
Brian  Boru?" 

"And  why  not?"  returned  Mr.  O'Toole  condescend- 
ingly. "  It's  not  every  one  has  ever  heard  of  King  Brian 
Boru.  You've  got  to  think  of  the  man  in  the  street.  He 
doesn't  know  one  king  from  another,  but  he's  an  edji- 
cated  man  for  all  that,  and  when  his  day's  work  is  done 


THE  CAREER  OF  JOURNALISM  17 

he  doesn't  grudge  a  copper  for  a  bloody  murder  to  read 
for  company  going  home  in  the  tram." 

Mr.  Macfadden  was  shaken  but  not  convinced.  "  I'd 
have  thought  even  the  common  people  would  have  heard 
of  Brian  Boru  and  Strongbow  knifing  him  on  Easter 
Bank  Holiday  down  there  at  Clontarf ." 

Mrs.  Macfadden  shuddered :  "  I  never  could  bear  the 
name  of  that  Strongbow,"  she  protested,  "because  of  a 
Corporal  Strongbow  in  the  Royal  Dragoon  Guards  that 
threatened  me  with  his  bayonet  for  marrying  Mr.  Mac- 
fadden." 

"  It  was  a  quare  Dragoon  Guard  that  carried  a  bayonet 
on  him,"  sniggered  Mr.  O'Toole,  annoyed  at  her  talk- 
ing of  other  things  while  he  held  the  floor  and  had  an 
eye  to  business. 

"God  forgive  me  for  telling  you  a  lie,"  said  Mrs. 
Macfadden  hastily :  "  his  name  was  Barlow  and  he  was 
a  sergeant  in  the  R.I.C."  She  concluded  with  emphasis : 
"  I'm  sure  I  don't  know  why  I  didn't  marry  them — they 
were  both  grand  matches." 

"  Matchmi "  commenced  Mr.  Macfadden,  when  a 

small  shrill  voice  interposed:  " 'Twasn't  Strongbow 
killed  Brian  Boru." 

The  next  moment  Mr.  Macfadden  landed  his  son  and 
heir  through  the  doorway  by  the  ear.  "  Run  and  play 
at  the  end  of  the  corner,"  he  admonished,  "and  don't 
come  back  until  you  hear  us  stop  talking." 

"  That  lad  might  do  well  if  you  can  keep  him  from 
telling  the  truth,"  volunteered  Mr.  O'Toole,  tactfully 
leading  them  back  to  the  business  in  hand  with  this 


i8  ADAM  OF  DUBLIN 

complimentary  phrase.  "But  you'll  have  to  wash  him 
with  dog  soap  so  the  old  ladies  can  kiss  him  without 
dread  of  a  stroke." 

"  Can't  they  buy  his  papers  without  smelling  at  him?  " 
growled  Mr.  Macfadden. 

"I  doubt  if  they  could  if  they  had  the  use  of  their 
senses,"  said  Mr.  O'Toole. 

"  Many  a  time  I've  washed  him  myself  when  he  was 
a  child,"  Mrs.  Macfadden  said  with  a  sigh.  "But  it 
was  never  any  use.  He'd  be  as  black  as  the  pot  before  the 
day  was  out.  And  now  he's  getting  too  big  for  it." 

Mr.  Macfadden  straightened  himself  with  a  determined 
air,  and  a  big  and  masterful  fellow  he  looked  as  he  pro- 
claimed :  "  I'm  not  the  man  to  stop  at  washing  him 
myself  if  there's  any  money  in  it." 

"That's  the  way  I  like  to  hear  you,"  Mr.  O'Toole 
responded.  "Nothing  venture,  nothing  win.  Do  you 
give  him  a  bit  of  an  ablution  with  the  scrubbing  brush, 
if  you  have  such  a  thing,  and  maybe  put  a  stitch  in  his 
trousers  if  you've  nothing  else  to  do,  while  I  see  about 
getting  the  papers.  And  don't  you  be  afraid  of  his 
being  able  to  buzz  them  off  all  right.  There's  the  grand 
racing  at  Epsom  beyond  this  week,  and  if  ye  give  an 
English  officer  coming  out  of  the  Sheridan  Club  a  Late 
Buff  with  a  headline,  '  Favorite  wins  the  Derby/  d'ye 
think  he'd  ever  have  the  sense  to  find  out  that  the  baste 
was  long  ago  gone  foreign  and  the  father  of  a  family 
in  South  America  ?  " 

"Thrue  for  you,"  Mr.  Macfadden  agreed,  this  time 
without  reserve.  "Them  officers  would  give  the  world 


THE  CAREER  OF  JOURNALISM  19 

to  hear  anything  agreeable  since  the  Boer  War.  And 
it's  doing  them  a  kindness  to  tell  them  a  lie."  He  rolled 
up  his  sleeve:  "Just  tell  Adam  to  step  up  here  to  me 
now  if  you  see  him  round  the  corner,  and  with  the 
blessing  of  God  I'll  begin  on  him  now." 

"  You  can't  start  too  soon,"  said  Mr.  O'Toole,  taking 
his  leave. 

"  I'll  lend  you  a  bit  of  soap,"  Mrs.  Macfadden  volun- 
teered, electrified  by  her  husband's  display  of  energy. 
And  so  through  a  foam  of  blinding,  biting  suds,  Adam 
found  himself  abruptly  launched  upon  the  seas  of  jour- 
nalism. 


CHAPTER  III 
ADAM  CRIES  OLD  NEWS  IN  STEPHEN'S  GREEN 

NOTWITHSTANDING  the  confidence  expressed  in  him  by 
his  accomplished  godfather,  Adam  made  but  a  modest 
beginning  in  the  world  of  polite  literature.  The  first 
day  he  adventured  into  Stephen's  Green  he  had  offered 
a  Mail  to  an  old  gentleman  in  a  white  hat,  who  took  it, 
opened  it,  and  instantly  fell  upon  him,  pummeling  him 
blindly  until  he  lay  down  and  screamed  murder,  and 
then,  lifting  him  in  panic  at  the  gathering  crowd,  had 
placed  half  a  crown  in  his  hand  and  bolted.  Adam, 
better  accustomed  to  kicks  than  halfpence,  thereupon 
hurried  home  in  triumph  to  his  family,  who  for  the 
nonce  took  him  to  their  bosoms. 

"  That's  grand  now,  that's  grand,"  chuckled  Mr.  Mac- 
fadden.  "  Half  a  crown  in  one  day,  that's  fourteen 
shillings  and  seven  sixpences  every  week,  if  you  count 
Sundays,  which  you  cannot ;  and  the  best  of  it  is  there's 
only  one  paper  gone,  so  if  you'd  had  the  sense  to  sell 
the  lot  you  might  say  you'd  have  made  a  fortune." 
Such  was  the  language  held  by  Mr.  Macfadden  to  en- 
courage his  son  on  his  start  in  life. 

To  Mr.  O'Toole,  whom  he  sought  out  a  little  later 
at  Mountjoy  Court,  he  described  the  transaction  more 
soberly :  "  I  won't  deny  there's  a  lot  in  that  notion  of 
20 


ADAM  CRIES  OLD  NEWS  21 

yours  if  Adam  had  the  gis  to  carry  it  through,"  he  said 
in  a  tone  of  deferential  criticism;  "but  it  wants  a 
mighty  lot  of  gis  for  so  young  a  lad."  He  paused  as 
though  to  take  breath,  and  waited  for  Mr.  O'Toole  to  say 
something.  But  Mr.  O'Toole  said  nothing. 

Miss  or  Mrs.  Robinson,  who  happened  to  be  present, 
ventured  to  inquire  what  had  happened. 

"  What  indeed !  "  said  Mr.  Macfadden,  "  why  the  poor 
lad  had  only  sold  one  Mail,  I  think  it  was,  when  he  got 
a  fall  sent  him  home  to  his  mother.  And  not  to  rob 
you  now,"  he  said  to  Mr.  O'Toole,  "  there's  your  half  of 
the  profit."  He  tendered  him  a  farthing. 

"Put  it  you  know  where,"  quoth  Mr.  O'Toole  in  a 
supercilious  tone  he  handled  effectively  with  persons 
more  sensitive  than  Mr.  Macfadden,  "  and  tell  that  young 
sniveler  that  if  he  can't  show  a  bit  of  spunk  I  wash 
my  hands  of  him." 

Mr.  Macfadden  did  not  think  it  his  cue  to  defend 
Adam's  physical  courage;  but  Miss  or  Mrs.  Robinson 
spoke  up  for  him:  "My  godson's  no  sniveler,  but  as 
brave  as  a  lion  and  how  do  you  know  a  tram  didn't 
run  over  him  to  make  him  give  in?" 

Mr.  O'Toole  rolled  a  bilious  eye  upon  her  by  way  of 
answer,  and  it  was  left  to  Mr.  Macfadden  to  carry  on 
the  conversation :  "  I  didn't  stop  to  hear  whether  it  was  a 
thram  happened  to  him  or  not,"  he  explained.  "My 
one  thought  was  to  bring  Mr.  O'Toole  his  due  without 
troubling  him  to  call  for  it.  But  soon  I  hope  he'll  be 
starting  work  again." 

"Jesus,  Mary,  and  Joseph  grant  it!"  said  the  god- 


22  ADAM  OF  DUBLIN 

mother,  with  the  perfect  faith  which  illuminated  her 
monotonous  life. 

"Anyhow  tell  him,"  said  Mr.  O'Toole,  "he  needn't 
look  to  me  to  do  any  more  for  him  till  he  shows  himself 
deserving  of  it." 

"Ah,  don't  be  hard  on  the  innocent  child,"  pleaded 
the  godmother,  "or  maybe  you'll  drive  him  to  destroy 
himself  off  Butt  Bridge  as  you  did  Fan  Tweedy  by 
asking  too  much  of  her." 

Again  Mr.  O'Toole  answered  her  with  only  his  eyes ; 
but  the  visitor  fired  up  with  virtuous  indignation :  "  I'll 
trouble  you  not  to  couple  a  son  of  mine  with  the  like 
of  Fan  Tweedy." 

Whereupon  Miss  or  Mrs.  Robinson  fell  into  hysterics 
and  Mr.  O'Toole  expressed  a  firmly  worded  desire  for 
him  to  withdraw ;  which  he  did  with  a  still  highly 
offended  manner,  implying  that  he  would  be  slow  to 
call  upon  Mr.  O'Toole  again.  But  outside  the  door  and 
descending  the  handsomely  welled  staircase,  with  the 
caution  necessary  to  bridge  the  gaps  between  the  steps 
and  compensate  for  the  frequent  intermissions  in  the 
handrail,  a  contented  smile  overspread  his  manly  fea- 
tures :  "  Thanks  be  to  God  I've  got  rid  of  that  fellow," 
said  he. 

Meanwhile,  inside  the  room  Mr.  O'Toole  waited  with- 
out any  show  of  impatience  for  Miss  or  Mrs.  Robinson  to 
recover  her  right  mind.  Then  he  said :  "  I  wish  you'd 
have  the  sense  to  hold  your  tongue  when  I've  a  black- 
guard like  Macfadden  to  deal  with." 

"  I  don't  care  what  you  say  to  Mr.  Macfadden,"  she 


ADAM  CRIES  OLD  NEWS  23 

answered  wistfully,  "  but  I  can't  stand  you  of  all  people 
abusing  little  Adam." 

Mr.  OToole  gave  her  the  benefit  of  his  supercilious 
smile:  "What  harm  does  it  do  him?"  he  asked  in  a 
tone  that  desired  no  answer.  "I  only  do  it  to  annoy 
Macfadden  and  keep  him  in  his  place.  If  I  was  to 
abuse  him  to  his  face  he'd  up  and  hit  me.  But  what 
bothers  me  is  he's  so  conceited  he'll  go  to  his  grave  and 
never  see  the  joke  at  the  bottom  of  the  whole  thing." 

"If  he  ever  does  ..."  she  shivered. 

Mr.  O'Toole  continued  to  smile:  "He  never  will. 
She'll  never  have  the  pluck  to  tell  him  and  if  she  did 
he  wouldn't  believe  her.  There's  not  a  greater  coxcomb 
in  Grafton  Street  than  dirty  old  humbugging,  bullying, 
swindling  Malachy  Macfadden." 

The  object  of  Mr.  O'Toole's  criticism  wore  a  serious 
cast  of  countenance  when  he  reached  home  to  tell  Mrs. 
Macfadden :  "  O'Toole  says  your  son's  a  good-for- 
nothing  young  stinkpot,  and  it'll  be  for  you  to  get  the 
papers  for  him  from  this  time  forward." 

Mrs.  Macfadden  bristled :  "  It's  not  the  first  time  he's 
fouled  his  own  nest,"  she  declared,  "and  Emily  Robin- 
son could  tell  you  where  he  finds  the  money  to  do  it  and 
despise  us.  But  I'll  show  him  that  my  son  is  as  good 
as  his  father  if  I  have  to  beg  my  bread  from  door  to 
door." 

"  I  don't  see  why  you're  dragging  me  into  it,"  said  Mr. 
Macfadden,  knitting  his  black  brows;  "and  there's  no 
call  for  you  to  go  begging  your  bread  when  there's  this 
enormous  profit  to  be  made  in  the  paper  trade.  Tis 


24  ADAM  OF  DUBLIN 

for  all  the  world  like  the  Debeer  mine  my  brother  made 
his  fortune  in,  and  I'm  thinking  I  done  well  to  call  my 
son  Adam." 

"Ah,  go  on  to  blazes,"  said  Mrs.  Macfadden,  venting 
upon  her  husband  the  ill-humor  aroused  by  the  tale 
of  the  misconduct  of  Mr.  OToole.  She  had  long  since 
ceased  to  follow  the  supposititious  career  of  Mr.  Mac- 
fadden's  brother,  though  his  name  had  figured  largely 
in  the  marriage  settlements,  verbal  in  form,  which  the 
happy  bridegroom  had  made  upon  her.  Mr.  O'Toole, 
who  with  all  his  well-bred  features,  gracefully  curved 
whiskers,  and  generously  colored  nose,  was  notoriously 
cynical  of  heart,  was  the  first  person  to  throw  doubt 
on  the  achievements  of  Brother  Adam,  in  whose  re- 
flected glory  Count  Alley  had  been  quite  content  that 
Mr.  Macfadden  should  bathe;  most  families  having 
Brother  Adams  of  their  own,  whose  conquests  in  the 
New  World  were  called  in  to  redress  their  defeats  in 
the  old. 

Mr.  O'Toole,  falling  into  the  common  error  of  higher 
critics,  had  tried  to  prove  too  much,  to  wit:  that  Mr. 
Macfadden  never  had  a  brother  at  all  beyond  two  that 
were  hanged;  whereupon  Mr.  Macfadden  produced  a 
cloud  of  witness  that  at  least  eleven  had  died  in  infancy. 
Furthermore,  an  elderly  and  well-to-do  widow  of  the 
name  of  Arnott  (for  whom  even  Mr.  O'Toole  felt  in- 
stinctive respect  when  presented  to  her  at  Mooney's  in 
Great  Britain  or  Parnell  Street)  testified  to  the  embarka- 
tion of  the  elder  Adam  on  board  the  troopship  Assistance 
at  the  Victoria  Jetty,  Kingstown.  "  I  can't  tell  you  when 


ADAM  CRIES  OLD  NEWS  25 

it  was,"  she  admitted,  "  for  you  wouldn't  think  it  polite 
of  me  to  tell  you  my  age,  though  every  one  knows  it  is 
twenty-nine,  but  I  remember  Adam  as  if  it  was  only  yes- 
terday kissing  me  good-by  with  the  band  playing  '  The 
Girl  I  Left  Behind  Me '  and  his  big  foreign  service  helmet 
battering  the  bridge  of  my  nose.  It  was  great  sauce  of 
him,  for  I  was  no  more  than  a  flapper  as  the  medicals 
say,  but  I  thought  no  harm  of  it,  for  he  was  the  hum- 
bugingest  fellow  I  ever  laid  eyes  on,  though  not  so  hand- 
some as  his  brother  Aloysius  that  was  hung !  no,  nor  even 
poor  Mrs.  Malachy's  husband  here,  but  there  wasn't  a 
girl  I  knew  in  Dublin  that  didn't  love  every  bit  of  him. 
And  the  next  thing  I  heard  of  him  was  that  King  Cat- 
supawayo  had  ate  himself  and  two  companies  of  the 
old  Twenty-fourth,  and  I  cried  my  eyes  out  so  that  I 
couldn't  go  near  Dan  Lowry's  that  night,  which  was  the 
fashionable  place  then  that  the  Hippodrome  is  now." 

"  Ye  needn't  have  distressed  yourself,  mam,"  said  Mr. 
Macfadden  stoutly.  "  It  was  all  my  eye  about  Cat- 
supmiyelbo,  and  my  brother's  alive  and  well  to  this  day 
and  never  better.  I  don't  know  how  long  ago  I  had 
a  post  card  from  him,  saying  he  was  near  the  richest  man 
in  Africa,  and  was  sending  me  a  postal  order  if  he  had 
the  time." 

"  Well,  you  do  hear  a  lot  of  lies,"  the  widow  readily 
admitted,  "and  the  gentleman  who  told  me  was  an 
officer  in  the  Dublin  Militia  I  wouldn't  thrust  farther 
than  I  could  see.  If  Adam's  doing  well  you  might  give 
him  my  love  and  ask  him  if  he  remembers  the  bridge 
of  my  nose." 


26  ADAM  OF  DUBLIN 

So  the  objectivity  of  the  elder  Adam's  existence  was 
vindicated,  but  Mr.  O'Toole'  merely  smiled  and  pro- 
tested that  Mrs.  Arnott  was  a  tactful,  witty,  and  amusing 
lady,  and  there  was  little  to  remove  from  Mrs.  Mac- 
fadden's  mind  the  seeds  of  suspicion  which,  were  his 
intentions  good  or  bad,  he  had  planted  there.  Their 
germination  proved  fatal  to  the  never  idyllic  peace  of 
her  married  life.  The  stalwart  and  most  unsartorial 
tailor  who,  though  several  years  her  senior,  appeared  to 
be  not  without  romance  when  considered  as  the  brother 
of  a  South-African  millionaire,  lost  all  charm  as  member 
of  a  family  of  whom  approximately  a  dozen  had  per- 
ished without  distinction,  two  been  hanged  in  circum- 
stances of  little  interest,  and  one  might  or  might  not 
have  been  devoured  by  a  foreign  prince  no  longer  reg- 
nant, but  certainly,  so  far  as  she  was  concerned,  had 
come  to  no  good.  Perhaps  Mrs.  Macfadden  never  came 
to  love  any  man  more  than  her  husband,  but  she  took 
more  pleasure  in  Mr.  O^Toole's  conversation.  Never- 
theless she  resented  an  affront  from  him  she  might  not 
have  noticed  from  her  husband,  and  she  was  resolved 
that  her  son's  business  should  not  be  ruined  by  his  god- 
father's apathy.  So  she  went  to  work  to  procure  the 
papers  for  him. 

And  so  far  as  quantity  went,  Adam  lacked  nothing. 
But  the  quality  was  not  equal  to  Mr.  O'Toole's.  If  Mrs. 
Macfadden  saw  a  pile  of  fresh-looking  papers  anywhere, 
she  would  beg  them  for  her  son  to  sell ;  and  kind  people, 
anxious  to  be  rid  of  lumber,  would  not  refuse  her. 
With  one  such  antiquated  batch  Adam  had  a  thrilling 


ADAM  CRIES  OLD  NEWS  27 

experience.  They  were  Telegraphs  found  by  his  mother 
on  an  unattended  barrow  in  Mountjoy  Square  and  an- 
nexed by  her  as  being  probably  of  less  value  to  the 
owner  than  to  her ;  and,  though  Adam  deemed  the  news 
in  them  of  interest,  they  found  at  first  no  sale.  He 
read  in  them  of  the  death  of  an  Irish  baronet  in  Africa, 
where  his  own  uncle  had  disappeared:  and  the  baronet, 
like  his  uncle,  had  been  a  soldier.  But  in  the  baronet's 
case  there  had  been  a  battle :  after  the  battle  there  had 
been  no  baronet.  Adam  could  not  make  out  what  had 
happened  to  him,  and  suspected  diabolic  agency,  the 
gallant  gentleman  had  so  completely  disappeared.  Either 
his  enemies  had  found  time  to  devour  him  in  the  heat  of 
action  or  the  devil  had  him  surely.  Whatever  his  fate, 
it  made  grand  news  to  cry,  and  what  with  the  papers 
containing  it  looking  still  so  clean,  he  wondered  why 
none  would  buy.  Vainly  he  walked  up  and  down  in 
front  of  the  hotel,  and  even  all  along  the  north  and  east 
sides  of  Stephen's  Green,  calling:  "Battle  in  the  Sou- 
dan :  Baronet  killed  in  Kordofan :  Death  of  Sir  David 
Byron-Quinn."  Futile  was  his  own  variation  on  the 
theme :  "  Awful  death  of  Irish  Baronet.  Bloody  end  to 
Sir  David  Byron-Quinn."  None  but  himself  showed  any 
interest  in  the  baronet :  and  he  only,  perhaps,  in  that  his 
name  was  Byron,  like  his  godfather's. 

Wearying  of  his  effort  to  rouse  attention,  his  mind 
had  wandered  to  thoughts  of  home,  to  which  only  the 
dread  of  his  reception  withheld  him  from  returning, 
though  his  voice  kept  mechanically  shrilling :  "  Shocking 
slaughter  in  the  Soudan:  Baronet  killed  in  Kordofan. 


28  ADAM  OF  DUBLIN 

Death  of  Sir  David  Byron-Quinn !  "  when  he  noticed  the 
door  of  a  house  on  the  east  side  of  the  Green  open  and  a 
woman  appear  pushing  a  bicycle,  on  which  she  mounted 
and  pedaled  towards  him.  She  was  not  a  young  woman, 
but  he  thought  her  at  first  glance  a  beautiful  and  dis- 
tinguished lady,  riding  there,  masterfully  contemptuous 
of  cars  and  cabs :  refusing  to  give  way  even  to  one  of 
Mr.  Murphy's  trams,  which  perforce  must  stop  to  let 
her  pass.  Adam  admired  her  until,  catching  her  eye  as 
she  drew  near,  he  noticed  in  it  a  wildness  that  was 
not  alluring,  and  that  her  whole  appearance  was  not 
merely  haggard  but  tousled  and  unkempt  in  a  way  he 
reckoned  did  not  become  a  lady.  He  was  still  conscious 
of  attraction,  but  he  was  not  attracted  by  her  as  by  his 
godmother,  who  was  his  standard  of  female  beauty. 
.  .  .  This  lady  in  no  way  resembled  the  Blessed  Vir- 
gin. .  .  .  Yet  her  eye  still  held  his  as  he  screamed  at 
her,  scenting  at  last  a  possible  purchaser :  "  Bloody  end 
to  Sir  David  Byron-Quinn !  " 

He  was  petrified  by  her  leaping  off  her  bicycle  to 
cry  in  his  ear:  "Are  you  mad,  or  has  the  Castle  paid 
you  to  insult  me  ?  "  .  .  . 

What  followed,  Adam  was  too  startled  to  realize : 
he  only  knew  that  the  lady  retired  to  the  house  in 
Stephen's  Green  with  his  papers  under  her  arm,  while 
he  found  himself  dancing  home  down  Kildare  Street 
with  a  dizzily  light  heart  and  another  precious  half- 
crown  clasped  in  his  hand. 

Never  again  had  he  such  a  harvest  as  this,  and  not 
for  years  did  he  solve  the  puzzle  of  it.  ...  But,  on 


ADAM  CRIES  OLD  NEWS  29 

the  whole,  he  did  pretty  well  with  his  papers,  consider- 
ing that  he  had  not  his  judicious  godfather  to  pick  and 
choose  them  for  him.  In  the  fifth  week  of  this  com- 
merce Mr.  O'Toole  somewhat  inconsfderately  appeared 
and  demanded  a  balance  sheet.  The  proposal  was  coldly 
received.  Mrs.  Macfadden  was  for  temporizing,  and 
even  the  payment  of  a  modest  lump  sum  to  purchase 
his  goodwill.  But  the  head  of  the  house  would  not 
hear  of  this.  He  merely  said,  "  Lumpmiyelbo ! "  and 
knocked  him  downstairs. 

Thence  Mr.  Byron  O'Toole  arose  and,  in  annoyance 
forgetting  all  forms  of  diplomacy,  bawled  his  intention 
of  invoking  the  aid  of  the  law;  thereby  causing  an 
impromptu  reunion  of  the  local  dilettanti  at  the  door 
of  the  house.  But  on  Mr.  Macfadden  indicating  the 
line  of  defense  on  which  he  relied,  and,  though  not 
clearly  connected  with  the  business  in  hand,  was  con- 
sidered by  a  majority  of  those  present  to  put  Mr.  O'Toole 
in  the  wrong,  the  latter  retired  without  resorting  to 
extremities.  So  Mr.  Macfadden  claimed  the  victory; 
but  his  wife  criticised,  as  severely  as  she  dared  when  he 
was  in  fighting  trim,  his  lack  of  vision. 

No  more  was  heard  of  Mr.  O'Toole  for  some  time  to 
come ;  but  when  Adam  next  took  up  his  place  by  the 
Shelbourne  Hotel  he  was  warned  off  by  the  porter  and 
driven  across  Kildare  Street.  And  two  days  after  that, 
striving  to  establish  himself  outside  one  of  the  clubs 
nearer  Graf  ton  Street,  he  was  challenged  by  a  constable, 
who  demanded  a  sight  of  his  wares.  Though  conscious 
of  no  guilt,  he  turned  a  deaf  ear  and  fled  down  Dawson 


30  ADAM  OF  DUBLIN 

Street,  only  to  run  into  the  arms  of  an  inspector,  who 
cuffed  him  with  a  professional  cunning  that  put  to 
shame  the  mere  heavy-handed  violence  of  his  father, 
and  confiscated  his  whole  stock.  St.  Stephen's  Green 
was  no  longer  tenable. 

"  You  done  wrong  to  quarrel  with  O'Toole ! "  Mrs. 
Macfadden  had  a  proper  pleasure  in  telling  her  husband, 
commenting  on  this  catastrophe :  "  I  warned  you  that  he 
had  the  Castle  behind  him." 

"  Casttemiyelbo ! "  was  that  strong  man's  undaunted 
answer.  "  Rutland  Squere's  as  good  as  Saint  Stephen's 
Green  any  day,  and  maybe  the  Gresham  Hotel  is  grander 
than  the  Shelbourne  if  the  truth  was  known.  .  .  .  And 
talking  of  truth,  there  the  Cat'lic  Truth  Company  second 
next  door  to  it  you  may  say,  where  I'd  feel  a  young  lad 
like  Adam  would  be  a  deal  safer  selling  his  papers  out- 
side of,  than  among  that  bastard  OToole's  fine  Prodestan 
friends  on  the  south  side." 

Mrs.  Macfadden  confessed  there  was  much  in  this 
point.  "  I've  been  uneasy  myself  to  think  of  him  losing 
the  faith  which  Father  Innocent  said  in  his  sermon  last 
Sunday,  Emily  Robinson  told  me,  and  she  never  loses 
a  word  he  says,  led  more  poor  unfortunate  people  to 
the  flames  of  hell  than  all  the  other  sins  in  the  world 
put  together.  She  says  he  cried  in  the  pulpit  and 
would  have  had  a  fit  if  the  administrator  hadn't  sent 
him  word  to  hurry  up  as  the  bishop  was  having  to 
catch  the  train  to  lunch  at  Blackrock." 

"Father  Innocent's  a  mollycoddling  sort  of  chap  to 
go  crying  in  the  chapel  and  wasting  the  bishop's  time," 


ADAM  CRIES  OLD  NEWS  31 

said  Mr.  Macfadden.  "But  I've  often  told  O'Toole, 
when  he  let  on  to  be  a  man  you  could  trust,  that  he'd 
be  safer  drinking  fire  and  brimstone  at  the  bottom  of 
an  earthquake  than  handing  round  claret-cup  and  oranges 
at  the  viceregal  lodge."  He  turned  his  eyes  upon  his 
wife  to  add  in  the  same  religious  tone:  "  He  was  a  false 
fellow  that  O'Toole,  and  I  wish  you'd  never  laid  eyes 
on  him." 

"  I  wish  I  never  had,"  she  answered  readily,  "  but  that 
was  a  grand  idea  of  his  about  the  papers  all  the  same." 

"  It  was  that,"  Mr.  Macfadden  admitted.  "  But  noth- 
ing more  would  have  come  of  it  only  for  me.  And  I  was 
against  the  Shelbourne  Hotel  from  the  beginning." 

Mrs.  Macfadden,  unless  confronted  by  immediate 
visible  danger,  never  allowed  herself  to  be  in  the  wrong. 
"  It  was  good  money,  and  he  took  no  harm  from  it." 

Mr.  Macfadden  indulged  in  a  sardonic  smile  and 
cleared  his  throat  portentously.  "  I  wonder  now,  have 
you  no  eyes  in  your  head." 

"  No,"  replied  Mrs.  Macfadden.  "  What's  the  matter 
with  you  ?  " 

"  It's  three  days  now  Adam's  been  cleaner  than  he 
ever  was  before  or  since." 

"I  did  see  there  was  something  the  matter  with  him," 
said  Mrs.  Macfadden ;  "  but  I  never  thought  to  look  what 
it  was." 

"  I  wasn't  to  be  made  a  fool  of  so  easy,"  Mr.  Mac- 
fadden proclaimed.  "  I  said  to  him  straight,  '  You  came 
home  yesterday  with  more  soap  on  your  face  than  you 
took  out.'  .  .  .  'If  I  did,'  says  he,  'I  took  none 


32  ADAM  OF  DUBLIN 

out.'  .  .  .  *  Don't  say  another  word,'  says  I,  '  and  keep 
nothing  back  or  you'll  never  have  another  face  to  soap.'  " 

"  And  what  did  he  say  to  that  ?  "  asked  the  anxious 
mother. 

Mr.  Macfadden's  tone  grew  more  and  more  impressive. 
"  He  told  me  how  an  old  lady  had  sejuced  him  to  a 
house  in  Merrion  or  one  of  them  grand  squares  beyond, 
and  up  and  gave  him  a  penny  to  take  a  bath." 

"  A  bath  indeed,"  repeated  Mrs.  Macfadden,  deeply 
stirred.  "  That's  how  it  always  begins  and  it  ends  in 
them  sending  you  to  teach  the  Chinamen  worse  things 
than  they  know  already." 

"  That's  it  surely,"  declared  Mr.  Macfadden.  "  I  tell 
you  we're  well  quit  of  Mr.  O'Toole  and  his  heathen 
grandees.  In  O'Connell  Street  I'll  have  the  lad  under 
the  sight  of  my  own  eye,  for  it's  round  the  corner,  and 
if  any  old  lady  comes  sejucin'  him  there  I  don't  know 
what  I'll  do  to  her." 

"  You  wouldn't,"  snapped  Mrs.  Macfadden,  resenting 
his  triumph.  "  And  I'm  troubled  to  think  if  there's  any 
one  in  O'Connell  Street  rich  enough  to  buy  papers  they 
don't  want.  And  there's  a  power  of  Presbyterians  be- 
tween Frederick  Street  and  the  Pillar." 

"If  it's  no  good,"  concluded  Mr.  Macfadden,  who, 
though  it  cannot  be  claimed  for  him  that  he  cherished 
wisdom  above  all  else,  was  what  is  commonly  called 
a  philosopher,  "we  can  always  try  St.  Stephen's  Green 
again,  later  on." 


CHAPTER  IV 
THE  TRUTH  ABOUT  THE  OLD  LADY 

ALTHOUGH  Adam  had  told  his  father  nothing  that  was 
not  true  concerning  his  adventure  with  the  old  lady, 
experience  had  taught  him  to  allow  no  information  to 
escape  that  was  not  elicited  by  a  leading  question.  The 
interrogatory  might  be  summarized  thus : — 

Why  was  he  clean?    Because  he  was  washed. 
Why  was  he  washed?     Because  he  had  been  in  a 
queer  sort  of  copper,  using  hot  water  and  some- 
thing that  smelt  like  soap,  only  smellier. 
Who  put  him  in  that  vessel?    Himself. 
Why  did  he  put  himself  therein?    To  earn  a  penny. 
Who  had  offered  to  pay  the  penny  ?    An  old  lady. 
What    old    lady?    An    old    lady    in   one    of    them 

squares. 
What  brought  him  to  one  of  them  squares?    The 

old  lady. 

Did  she  bring  him  by  force?    No. 
What  means  did  she  use  to  induce  him  to  go?    He 

could  not  say. 

Then  why  did  he  go  ?    He  could  not  rightly  say. 
Would  it  be  easier  for  him  to  be  belted  than  to  say? 

No. 

Then  what  made  him  go?    The  old  lady  mentioned 
33 


34  ADAM  OF  DUBLIN 

the  possibility  of  good  little  boys  earning  pennies 
by  being  obedient  to  their  betters. 
Did  she  say  anything  else  ?    Only  blather. 
Blather  about  what?    About  God  being  good  to  him. 
Why  did  he  call  that  blather?    Because  God  was 
never  good  to  him  except  when  the  Blessed  Virgin 
asked  Him. 

As  Mr.  Macfadden  could  not  clearly  recall  whether 
this  was  sound  dogma,  he  did  not  venture  to  pursue 
the  matter,  but  contented  himself  with  solemnly  admon- 
ishing his  son  that  if  the  old  lady  accosted  him  again, 
he  was  not  to  go  with  her  for  less  than  threepence ;  and 
if  she  gave  him  any  sort  of  book  or  printed  matter  he 
was  to  bring  it  home  unopened  to  submit  to  the  paternal 
censorship.  Furthermore  he  was  never  on  any  account  to 
mention  the  matter  to  his  mother.  This  Adam  was  only 
too  happy  to  promise;  and  to  conceal  the  fact  that  he 
himself  had  divulged  the  secret  to  her,  Mr.  Macfad- 
den decreed  that  the  story  should  be  buried  in  ob- 
livion. 

For  twenty-four  hours  Mrs.  Macfadden  had  it  on  the 
tip  of  her  tongue ;  but  after  that  it  was  forgotten  in  the 
bitterness  of  the  estrangement  from  Mr.  O'Toole.  "  It's 
not  that  I  care  the  back  of  my  hand  for  the  fellow," 
she  would  say,  "  but  not  seeing  him  I  can't  see  Emily 
Robinson  neither." 

"  Emilyrobinsonmiyelbo,"  said  Mr.  Macfadden  simply 
but  with  much  expression. 

But,  though  the  story  faded  so  fast  from  his  parents' 
recollection,  the  adventure  with  the  old  lady  marked 


TRUTH  ABOUT  THE  OLD  LADY    35 

the  ruddiest  of  letter  days  in  little  Adam's  life:  its 
memory  was  not  the  less  thrilling  for  the  hint  of  evil 
that  underlay  the  fair  surface.  What  had  happened  was 
this :  In  the  duller  moments  of  business,  between  luncheon 
and  afternoon  tea,  he  had  wandered  eastward  from  the 
Shelbourne  Hotel,  to  refresh  himself  with  a  glance  at  the 
shop  windows.  He  had  not  gone  far  when  he  saw  a 
stout  lady,  active  on  her  feet  but  no  longer  young,  come 
bustling  out  of  Gerrard  the  stationer's  with  several  letters 
in  her  hand.  Attempting  to  thrust  them  all  together  into 
the  neighboring  postal  box,  she  let  one  drop.  This  Adam 
was  quick  to  seize  and  return  to  her.  He  noticed  that  the 
address  opened  with  the  mysterious  abbreviation,  "  Rt. 
Hon.,"  but  not  that  he  had  left  a  brilliant  impression  of 
his  right  thumb  beneath  the  stamp. 

The  stout  lady  looked  from  the  boy  to  her  letter 
and  back  again.  "  You're  as  dirty  as  you're  polite,"  she 
said. 

"  Thank  you,  mam,  and  God  bless  you,"  replied  Adam, 
who  already  knew  in  what  form  a  conversation  with  the 
aristocracy  had  to  be  held. 

The  old  lady  emptied  her  lungs  in  a  futile  attempt  to 
remove  his  identification  mark  from  her  letter.  "  There," 
she  said,  "  I've  done  my  best  and  I  hope  Judge  Harrison 
will  think  it's  the  postman."  She  dropped  the  letter  into 
the  box. 

"  Yes,  mam,"  said  Adam,  "  and  God  bless  you." 

The  old  lady  stayed  to  regard  him  sternly  as  she 
demanded :  "  How  can  you  invoke  God  with  such  dirty 
hands?" 


36  ADAM  OF  DUBLIN 

"  I  didn't  mean  to  let  a  curse,  mam,"  he  said  apolo- 
getically. 

Her  tone  softened.  "I  didn't  say  you  cursed,  but 
you  called  on  God  twice  in  as  many  minutes,  and  with- 
out any  seemly  preparation.  Now  just  think,  child,  that 
God  might  possibly  hear  you,  might  even  condescend  to 
turn  His  beautiful  great  eyes  on  you.  Don't  you  think 
then  He  might  see  your  dirty  hands  and  strike  you 
dead?" 

"  He  might  indeed,  mam,"  agreed  Adam,  "  if  He  had  a 
mind  to." 

Her  tone  grew  compassionate.  "  And  tell  me,  my 
dear  child,  what  would  you  do  then  ?  " 

"  I'd  go  to  purgatory,"  he  replied  smartly,  looking 
to  her  to  be  pleased  with  his  response. 

Far  from  it,  she  rejoined :  "  You  poor  benighted  little 
guttersnipe,  there  is  no  such  place." 

Fortunately  for  the  too  zealous  lady,  Adam  had 
learned  to  be  master  of  his  temper.  "  No,  mam,"  an- 
swered he  politely,  but  lest  she  should  deem  that  he  really 
agreed  with  her  he  added,  "  Sure  anyhow  doesn't  God 
know  all  about  my  hands  without  bothering  to  look  at 
them?" 

"  Do  you  think  that's  the  answer  I  expect  from 
you,  when  I'm  doing  my  best?"  the  lady  asked 
tartly. 

"  Yes,  mam,"  said  Adam,  "  and  God  bless  you." 

"  And  if  I  were  dead,"  she  said  contemptuously,  "  I 
suppose  you'd  pray  for  me?" 

"I  would  indeed,  mam,"  Adam  did  not  hesitate  to 


TRUTH  ABOUT  THE  OLD  LADY    37 

assure  her,  though  this  was  scarcely  more  than  politeness, 
"  if  I  knew  your  name  ?  " 

*'  Then  you  don't  know  my  name?  "  The  lady  did  not 
dissemble  her  surprise. 

"I  don't  indeed,  mam,"  said  Adam,  "no  more  than 
you  know  mine." 

Somewhat  ruffled,  she  demanded  his  name  and  ad- 
dress, which  he  was  at  once  alarmed  and  flattered  to 
see  her  make  a  note  of  in  a  little  black  book  she 
carried  in  a  black  velvet  bag  hanging  over  her  arm. 

"  Now  tell  me,  Andrew  Macadam,"  said  she,  "  do  you 
truly  believe,  in  your  heart,  that  God  commands  you  to 
be  dirty?" 

Adam  guessed  from  the  form  of  the  question  that  she 
wished  him  to  answer  it  in  the  negative,  so  he  said 
winningly,  "  Indeed,  mam,  and  I  do  not."  He  hoped  he 
might  now  be  suffered  to  depart,  with  or  without 
reward. 

But  the  lady's  tone  only  warmed  agreeably  as  she 
felt  that  she  was  at  last  gaining  ground.  "  And  do  you 
yourself  love  to  be  dirty  when  you  know  that  God  does 
not  command  it  ?  " 

This  was  a  difficult  question  for  Adam  satisfactorily 
to  answer;  for  cleanliness  was  associated  in  his  mind 
with  savage  onslaughts  made  upon  him  by  his  mother 
at  long  intervals,  culminating  in  his  father's  assault  and 
battery,  from  which  his  ears  still  tingled,  so  he  said 
humbly,  "  Indeed,  mam,  I  wouldn't  like  you  to  think 
that." 

"  Well,  then,"  said  the  old  lady,  turning  her  determined 


38  ADAM  OF  DUBLIN 

step  in  the  direction  of  Baggot  Street,  "  just  walk  along 
beside  me  here  and  tell  me  if  you  wouldn't  wish  to  be 
clean." 

Adam's  heart  fell;  he  looked  longingly  towards  the 
Shelbourne  Hotel,  which  vomited  possible  purchasers 
of  his  wares.  But  he  knew  not  how  to  answer  or  excuse 
himself,  so  broken  was  he  to  obedience  that  he  fell  in 
beside  her,  uncertain  that  she  might  not  smash  her 
umbrella  on  him  if  he  refused. 

"  So  you  think  you'd  like  to  be  a  nice  clean  little  true 
Christian  lad  after  all?"  the  lady  said  in  her  most 
fascinating  tone,  as  she  bowed  to  an  acquaintance  at 
the  corner  of  Ely  Place  with  an  air  of  saying,  "  Look 
what  I've  got  here." 

Adam's  spirits  sunk  lower  beneath  the  weight  of  this 
triumphant  glance;  it  reminded  him  of  a  fat  old  fox 
terrier  he  had  once  seen  swallow  without  apparent  effort 
a  mouse:  the  mouse,  he  thought,  had  consented  to  its 
absorption  and  folded  itself  appropriately.  .  .  .  Was  he 
not  now  in  the  same  position  as  that  mouse?  .  .  .  with- 
out venturing  to  flee  (for,  if  the  lady  proved  to  be  a 
witch  that  would  be  worse  than  useless),  he  dragged 
his  steps :  "  Please,  mam,  I  was  only  thinking  I  don't 
know  where  your  ladyship  would  be  taking  me." 

"My  dear  child,"  said  the  lady,  "I'm  only  bringing 
you  somewhere  you  can  have  a  wash  to  make  you  more 
acceptable  in  the  sight  of  our  dear  Lord." 

Adam  abruptly  backed  against  the  railings,  and 
clenched  his  right  hand,  the  left  clutching  his  papers 
lest  they  be  seized  from  him  in  the  melee.  "  If  any  one 


TRUTH  ABOUT  THE  OLD  LADY     39 

lays  hands  on  me  I'll  break  their  gob,"  he  blurted  with  a 
desperate  valor  he  did  not  feel. 

The  lady,  though  scandalized,  did  not  lose  patience, 
indeed  she  patently  grew  in  sanctity  as  she  answered, 
"  Come,  my  child,  no  one  is  going  to  lay  hands  on  you. 
You  will  go  into  a  beautiful  room  all  by  yourself  where 
there  is  a  nice  bath,  with  delicious  hot  water,  and  as 
much  cold  as  you  like,  and  as  much  soap  as  you 
like  ..." 

"I  don't  like  soap,"  cried  Adam.  "My  nose  is  de- 
stroyed with  it." 

"  Perhaps  some  one  laved  you  too  roughly,"  said  she. 
"  Have  you  been  in  prison  ?  surely  not  at  your  age  ?  " 

"I  have  not,  mam,"  said  Adam,  interested  in  the 
question,  "but  I've  heard  tell  that  Kilmainham's  the 
grand  place." 

"Well,  anyhow,"  said  the  old  lady,  "you  won't  be 
afraid  to  soap  yourself.  You  will  be  quite  alone  and  no 
one  will  interfere  with  you  in  any  way,  and  if  I  find 
you've  made  yourself  clean  enough  for  our  dear  Lord,  I'll 
give  you  this.  ..."  She  held  up  a  bright  new  penny. 

Adam  gazed  at  it  and  reflected  on  its  being  a  possible 
possession  for  himself  alone,  not  to  be  accounted  for 
to  his  parents.  Also  he  saw  a  policeman  coming,  who, 
he  knew,  would  do  anything  the  old  lady  bade  him,  so 
he  parleyed,  "  And  how  long  would  it  be  taking  me  to  earn 
that?  "he  asked. 

"  That  depends  on  yourself,"  the  old  lady  explained. 
"And  how  long  you  take  to  wash.  I'll  not  detain  you 
a  minute,  and  my  house  is  round  the  corner.  ^  ..  ... 


40  ADAM  OF  DUBLIN 

Come,  now,  that's  a  good  boy,  and  remember  you're  not 
doing  it  for  me,  nor  for  yourself,  but  for  our  dear  Lord, 
who  died  on  a  cross  to  save  us  all." 

Adam  made  no  effort  to  follow  this  argument,  but 
jogged  along  beside  her  with  the  set  expression  of  a 
gallows-bird  determined  to  meet  gamely  his  inevitable 
fate.  Also  he  visualized  bitter  waters  with  a  golden 
penny  glittering  on  the  other  side. 

He  had  already  entered  a  world  of  which  even  the 
topography  was  new  to  him ;  for  he  had  never  ventured 
farther  than  Ely  Place  with  his  papers,  and  until  he 
came  a  few  days  earlier  to  take  up  his  profession  in 
Stephen's  Green,  the  whole  south  side  of  the  city  was 
a  remote  and  foreign  land. 

He  thought  the  lady,  had  marched  him  quite  a  long 
way  when  she  turned  into  a  square  not  to  be  distin- 
guished from  Mount  joy  on  the  north  side  but  for  the 
brightness  of  window-glass  and  door  brasses  and  the  pre- 
dominance of  automobiles  and  carriages  above  outside 
cars  and  cabs.  She  stopped  at  last  by  an  area  gateway, 
bade  Adam  to  remain  where  he  was,  ascended  six  steps  to 
the  hall  door,  which,  having  rung  the  bell,  she  opened 
with  a  latchkey,  and  disappeared. 

Adam  looked  around:  here  surely  was  a  chance  to 
escape;  but  his  limbs  did  not  respond  to  the  suggestion 
of  his  brain:  he  was,  as  it  were,  anaesthetized  by  a 
delicious  odor  which  rose  from  the  area  below.  Some 
one  in  that  mysterious  dwelling  was  cooking  a  beef- 
steak with  onions.  He  was  wondering  whether  Fate 
would  ever  have  such  a  godlike  repast  to  offer  him 


TRUTH  ABOUT  THE  OLD  LADY    41 

when  the  scullery  door  opened  and  a  short,  portly  form 
appeared  and  waved  a  masterful  hand  at  him.  "  Come 
on  out  o'  that,"  it  said. 

Adam  understood  that  he  was  to  descend  the  steps 
and  enter  the  house.  He  had  just  time  to  take  in  the 
point  that  this  new  authority,  though  short,  stout,  bald, 
and  clean  shaven  as  an  egg,  had  much  in  common  with 
Mr.  O'Toole,  when  he  was  hustled  through  a  kitchen 
which  contained,  in  addition  to  the  divine  beefsteak, 
several  beautiful  and  smart  young  ladies,  who  sprang, 
screaming,  away  in  dread  of  contact  with  his  rags. 
Abashed  at  being  treated  as  a  pariah,  he  was  conscious 
of  nothing  more  but  a  swift,  soundless  passage  up  lighted 
stairways  to  an  apartment  of  incredible  brightness,  where 
there  was  a  roar  of  falling  waters  and  clouds  of  steam. 

"  That's  the  bath,  that's  the  hot  water,  that's  the  hot 
tap,  that's  the  cold,  that's  the  way  you  turn  it  off,  that's 
the  way  you  empty  out,  that's  the  chain  that  pulls  the 
plug,  that's  the  soap,  that's  the  towel,  that's  all,"  puffed 
the  portly  man,  and  turned  to  go.  But  he  stayed  at  the 
door,  to  add  over  his  shoulder,  his  watch  in  his  hand, 
"It's  nearly  half -past  five:  you've  got  to  be  as  quick 
as  lightning."  The  door  closed,  and  Adam  was  horrified 
to  hear  a  key  turn  in  the  lock. 

He  sprang  at  the  door,  beating  it  with  his  hands. 
"  Murder !  "  he  cried.  "  Holy  Mary,  help  me." 

"  Ah,  go  on  out  o'  that  with  your  idolatry,"  said  the 
man  outside  in  a  fierce  whisper,  adding  in  a  louder 
tone,  "  Sure,  I'll  let  you  out  when  I  come  back."  Three 
footsteps  carried  him  out  of  hearing;  but  he  returned 


42  ADAM  OF  DUBLIN 

in  a  moment  to  shout,  "Are  you  clean  yet?  .  .  .  You'd 
better  hurry  up,  young  man,  or  the  master  will  be  home 
in  a  minute  and  if  he  catches  you  it  will  be  the  bad 
day  you  were  born." 

With  the  desperation  of  one  between  the  devil  and 
the  deep  sea,  Adam  plunged  out  of  his  tatters  and  into 
the  bath,  where  he  was  freshly  dismayed  to  find  him- 
self covered  to  his  waist  in  the  still  rising  waters.  Fur- 
ther was  he  harassed  by  a  louder  banging  at  the  door 
and  the  man's  voice  again,  "  Turn  off  the  taps,  you  idgit, 
d'ye  want  us  all  deluged  into  the  Liffey  ?  " 

He  hastened  to  obey  and  having  no  notion  of  the 
properties  of  water,  had  no  sooner  accomplished  his 
purpose  than  he  slipped  on  the  tiles  and  collapsed  back- 
ward to  the  bottom  of  the  bath ;  the  flood  sweeping,  as 
it  seemed  to  him,  for  ever  over  his  head.  Frantically 
but  fruitlessly,  he  struggled  to  get  his  chin  above  the 
waters,  when  suddenly  they  subsided  from  around  him: 
his  wild-cat  toes  had  rescued  him  by  clawing  out  the 
plug.  He  lay  at  the  bottom  of  the  bath  and  breath- 
lessly thanked  the  Virgin  Mary  for  her  intercession  until 
he  sneezed  and  realized  that  his  skin  felt  very  cold,  and 
that  the  hot  water  had  been  remarkably  pleasant  round 
him  but  for  the  dread  of  drowning. 

Gathering  courage,  he  replaced  the  plug  and  turned 
on  the  hot  tap  very  gingerly,  and  allowed  it  to  run  to 
a  depth  of  some  inches,  so  that  if  he  lay  quite  flat  it 
would  cover  him  without  flowing  into  his  mouth  or  up 
his  nostrils.  Then  he  took  the  soap  and  rubbed  his 
wet  fingers  in  it.  It  gave  off  an  odor  almost  as  agree- 


TRUTH  ABOUT  THE  OLD  LADY    43 

able  as  that  of  the  beefsteak:  he  bit  off  a  small  piece 
but  spat  it  out  again,  disappointed.  Then  he  rubbed 
it  all  over  his  hands  and  made  some  suds  which  he 
applied  tentatively  to  his  face  and  neck  as  far  as  his 
collar  bones,  his  arms  to  the  elbows,  and  his  feet  and 
legs  to  the  knees.  Washing  the  soap  off  again,  he 
realized  that  the  process  had  been  rather  pleasant  than 
otherwise.  Then  the  demon  of  luxury  prompted  him 
to  a  course  he  felt  to  be  as  full  of  joy  as  of  sin,  and 
he  found  himself  standing  in  the  bath  and  soaping  away 
wildly  over  every  inch  of  his  anatomy,  when  the  door- 
handle turned  viciously,  there  was  a  heavy  bump,  and 
a  new  voice  growled  threateningly,  "  What's  this  ? 
What's  this?  Who's  in  there?  Answer  me  at  once." 

"It's  me,"  Adam  answered  obediently  in  a  whisper 
that  scarcely  left  the  bath. 

The  voice  outside  was  switched  off  in  another  direc- 
tion and  he  heard  it  say,  "  Why  is  the  bathroom  door 
locked  ?  "  He  could  not  catch  any  answer,  but  presently 
the  voice,  far  off  but  very  loud,  bellowed,  "Why  the 
devil  can't  you  Haptize  those  damned  brats  at  some 
other  hour  of  the  day?"  followed  by  the  monosyllable 
"  Club  "  and  the  hall  door  banged  with  a  crash  that  shook 
the  cake  of  soap  out  of  its  dish  into  the  bath. 

Very  much  shaken,  Adam  rinsed  himself  from  the 
soap,  climbed  out,  dried  himself  in  a  small  corner  of  the 
Turkish  towel,  and  had  started  to  huddle  on  his  clothes 
when  the  door  burst  open  and  the  stout  man  re-entered. 
"Didn't  I  tell  you  to  be  as  quick  as  lightning?"  he 
bawled.  "  And  there  you  go  dawdling  along  as  if  this, 


44  ADAM  OF  DUBLIN 

was  the  Hammams  and  her  ladyship  no  more  than  any 
old  bathing- woman." 

"  I  was  near  drownded,"  pleaded  Adam. 

"  Serve  you  right,  then,  for  going  out  of  your  depth 
and  wasting  the  hot  water,"  the  other  retorted.  "The 
house  is  turned  upside  down  with  your  vagaries  and 
the  master  is  after  cursing  me  so  that  I  don't  know 
whether  I'm  standing  on  my  tail  or  my  head,  and  gone 
off  to  spend  his  money  playing  cards  at  the  club  when 
he  had  a  right  to  be  at  home  helping  her  ladyship  with 
her  tracts.  So  give  me  none  of  your  back  chat,  but  come 
on  out  o'  that." 

All  a-tremble,  Adam  followed  him  downstairs  where, 
in  a  small  room  somewhere  at  the  back,  decorated  with 
the  text,  "  Suffer  Little  Children  To  Come  Unto  Me," 
and  the  portrait  of  a  clergyman  with  a  photographic 
smile,  the  old  lady  sat  awaiting  his  return.  She  looked 
very  sad  and  held  her  handkerchief  in  one  hand,  a 
biscuit  in  the  other.  She  brightened  on  seeing  Adam. 

"You  have  washed  yourself  very  nicely,"  said  she, 
"and  although  your  thoughtless  conduct  in  the  bath- 
room has  caused  me  a  deep  wound,  I  will  not  blame 
you  for  that."  She  laid  down  her  handkerchief  and  the 
biscuit  and  opened  her  purse.  "  Here  is  the  penny  I 
promised  you." 

Adam  saw  at  a  glance  that  it  was  a  different  and 
quite  ordinary  penny,  but  the  portrait  of  the  clergyman 
forbade  him  to  protest.  He  took  it  for  granted  that  he 
was  the  master. 

The  old  lady  concluded,  "I  have  promised  not  to 


TRUTH  ABOUT  THE  OLD  LADY          45 

detain  you,  so  I  will  refrain  from  pointing  out  to  you 
the  infamous  absurdities  of  trie  Popish  superstition.  For 
instance,  the  Virgin  Mary,  whom  I  heard  you  mention 
a  little  while  since,  was  a  common  woman,  neither  better 
nor  worse  perhaps  than  your  own  mother.  She  was  in 
no  sense  of  the  word  a  lady,  and  so  even  when  she 
was  alive  could  have  been  of  no  use  to  you.  As  you  are 
old  enough  to  understand  she  is  dead.  ...  As  we  need 
not  question  that  she  meant  well  she  is  probably  now  in 
heaven,  sitting,  perhaps,  not  far  from  her  Dear  Son.  .  .  . 
But  you  must  never  forget  that  our  God  is  a  jealous 
God,  and  nothing  displeases  Him  more  than  that  we 
should  take  more  notice  of  others  than  of  Him.  In 
future  you  must  pray  to  no  one  else  or  you  will  be 
damned.  Here  is  a  biscuit  to  take  home  with  you." 

Then  the  changed  body  and  perplexed  soul  of  Adam 
Macfadden  passed  out  of  the  room,  down  the  kitchen 
stairs,  through  the  midst  of  the  maids,  who  wondered 
perhaps  at  his  burning  cheeks  and  glowing  eyes,  out 
and  up  the  area  steps  to  the  cool,  lamp-sprinkled  dark- 
ness of  Fitzwilliam  Square,  and  turned  towards  where 
the  North  Star  hung  high  above  the  Pro-Cathedral.  He 
was  still  in  wonderland,  but  somewhere  he  heard  an 
angelus  bell  of  familiar  tone  calling  through  the  night, 
and  steering  by  that,  he  found  himself  crossing  Ely 
Place.  As  he  passed  Gerrard's,  he  heard  again  his  own 
little  treble,  mechanically  calling  his  papers. 

These  are  the  facts  of  the  adventure  with  the  old 
lady;  and  allowing  for  apostolic  enthusiasm,  you  will 
find  them  so  set  forth  in  the  first  chapter  of  that 


46  ADAM  OF  DUBLIN 

valuable  work,  How  Lady  B.  brought  Andrew  Macadam 
to  Jesus.  It  is  published  by  the  Loyal  Society  for  the 
Conversion  of  the  Celtic  Aborigines,  at  their  office  in 
Molesworth  Street;  and  you  may  have  thirteen  copies 
for  a  shilling,  if  you  cannot  be  content  with  one, 


CHAPTER  V 
ROME  AND  GENEVA 

IT  must  be  remembered  that  the  adventure  with  the 
old  lady  had  occurred  at  the  very  outset  of  Adam's 
journalistic  career,  and  long  before  the  fiasco  with 
Father  Muldoon,  SJ.,  had  called  down  upon  him  his 
father's  recrimination.  Between  these  dates,  so  notable 
in  themselves,  there  came  one  scarcely  less  notable: 
when  he  made  to  Father  Innocent  Feeley  his  First 
Confession.  As  are  most  solitary  children,  Adam  was 
of  a  reflective  and  introspective  turn  of  mind;  and  even 
the  ingenuous  Father  Innocent's  instruction  revolution- 
ized his  thought.  He  commenced  to  suspect  that  if  his 
parents,  and  particularly  his  father,  had  ever  known 
good  and  evil,  they  must  have  forgotten  the  difference 
before  he  came  to  be  acquainted  with  them.  He  tried 
to  fix  the  date  of  this  meeting,  and  arrived  at  the  con- 
clusion that  it  coincided  with  that  of  his  birth.  That 
was  a  remote  period  to  which  his  memory  did  not  ex- 
tend; and  the  first  rule  of  obedience  in  the  Macfadden 
household  was  that  he  must  ask  no  question,  under  pain 
of  flogging  with  the  porter  bottle.  Mrs.  Macfadden 
upheld  this  ordinance  as  strictly  as  her  husband,  and 
was,  indeed,  almost  more  resentful  of  any  hint  into  in- 
quiry of  past,  present,  or  future.  But  no  intelligent  lad 
47 


48  ADAM  OF  DUBLIN 

could  live  many  years  under  the  shadow  of  the  Pro- 
Cathedral  without  arriving  at  some  theory  of  the  origin 
of  life,  nor  were  his  commercial  competitors  in  Sackville 
(or  O'Connell)  Street  reticent  upon  the  subject. 

They  hailed  him  from  the  start,  as  "  You  little  bastard." 
This  troubled  him  more  than  any  word  of  abuse  he 
had  heard  from  his  parents,  until  he  realized  that  it 
was  the  common  form  of  salutation  among  themselves, 
and  that  neither  the  amiable,  tipsy,  cab-tout  outside 
the  Gresham  Hotel,  nor  the  policeman  who  periodically 
took  him  in  charge,  and  threatened  them  with  the  like 
for  using  indecent  language,  ever  addressed  them  in 
any  other  style. 

Most  of  these  boys  went  to  half-past  eleven  Mass 
at  the  Pro -Cathedral.  Sunday  after  Sunday,  they  ar- 
rived late  and  turned  out  early,  save  one,  by  name  Sam 
Lorgan,  who  was  fat,  wore  boots,  and  sang  in  the  choir. 
He  was  disliked  by  the  other  boys  and  vaguely  feared. 
Adam  was  at  first  attracted  to  him  by  his  pink,  com- 
paratively clean  face;  but  Mr.  Lorgan  repelled  his  ad- 
vances. "  I  wonder  you're  not  afraid  of  being  struck 
dead,  selling  old  papers  to  the  holy  priests,"  he  said, 
turning  away.  Adam  felt  that  despite  his  superior  pre- 
tensions, he  was  not  really  a  gentleman.  The  suggestion 
of  fraud  was  too  base  to  touch  him. 

If  people  liked  to  buy  old  papers,  why  should  he 
refuse  to  gratify  their  desires?  If  easy  ones  said  to  him, 
"Paper?"  and  handed  him  a  copper,  what  harm  was 
there  in  the  exchange?  If  they  demanded  specifically, 
"  Have  you  an  Evening  Telegraph,  or  a  Mail,  or  Herald?  " 


ROME  AND  GENEVA  49 

he  could  truthfully  answer  in  the  affirmative  and  pro- 
ceed to  business.  ...  If,  however,  they  were  precisians, 
knowing  exactly  what  they  wanted,  and  asked  for  rt  This 
evening's  Telegraph,  or  Mail,  or  Herald,"  he  would  ex- 
press his  regret  that  he  had  it  not,  but  would  direct 
them  to  one  who  had.  He  never  spared  himself  in 
seeing  that  some  one  had  the  benefit  of  their  desire  to 
buy.  It  was  this  good  nature  on  his  part  which  ensured 
his  position  outside  the  Gresham  Hotel.  Other  boys 
tried  to  imitate  him,  but  failed,  for  they  did  not  act  in 
good  faith,  whereas  Adam  knew  himself  to  be  supply- 
ing a  genuine,  if  very  limited,  public  want  of  sound 
and  accurate  news. 

But,  after  his  first  confession,  doubts  began  to  creep 
into  his  mind.  Sammie  Lorgan's  impertinence  perhaps 
started  the  train  of  thought:  was  the  newspaper  trade 
in  itself  displeasing  in  the  sight  of  God?  He  put  the 
question  to  Father  Innocent,  who  seemed  a  little  sur- 
prised; and  assured  him  that  many  a  grand  and  holy 
Catholic,  though  he  could  not  recall  their  names,  had 
made  a  fortune  out  of  it,  which  they  distributed  among 
the  poor.  "  There's  no  sin  in  making  money  in  any  way 
your  father  and  mother  tell  you,"  said  Father  Innocent. 
"  Only  you  must  remember  not  to  spend  it  on  yourself." 

This  fully  cleared  Adam's  soul ;'  for  certainly  he  would 
not  stand  for  another  hour  in  the  cold  gray  of  Sack- 
ville  Street,  selling  old  papers  or  new,  if  his  parents  did 
not  insist  upon  it:  and  the  only  penny  he  ever  remem- 
bered to  have  spent  upon  himself  was  the  one  bestowed 
upon  him  by  the  benevolent,  but  demonstrably  insane  old 


5o  ADAM  OF  DUBLIN 

lady,  who  had  told  him  that  his  mother  resembled  the 
Blessed  Virgin.  Fearful  lest  his  father  should  lay 
claim  to  this  he  had  expended  it  on  a  pencil  with  rubber 
and  protector  all  complete,  which  he  concealed  in  the 
inmost  arcana  of  his  rags.  He  hugged  it  to  himself  as 
his  one  real  possession  in  the  world,  and  also  the  sole 
evidence  he  had  that  his  journey  into  wonderland  was 
not  an  idle  dream:  also  it  served  him  as  a  key  to  that 
half  glimpsed  world  where  one  communicated  with 
others  without  opening  the  lips:  on  scraps  of  tattered 
and  unsaleable  Telegraphs  and  Heralds  he  would  pencil 
out  in  capital  letters  his  own  name  or  the  names  of 
things  as:  RAILWAYINGIN,  POURTARBOTL, 
MOTARCOR,  BLESAIDVARGIN,  and  so  on.  It  was 
peculiarly  gratifying  to  do  this  in  his  rag-bed,  by  the 
first  bright  gleam  of  the  summer  sun,  while  his  father 
and  mother  still  snored  in  consort,  undreaming  of  the 
tide  of  intellectual  revolt,  swiftly  rising  in  the  corner 
of  the  room  once  tenanted  by  the  severely  conservative 
Mr.  OToole. 

Adam's  next  unsettling  conversation  was  with  a  tall 
and  stalwart  gentleman,  ruddy  and  mustachioed,  whom 
he  knew  by  his  combination  of  dog-collar  and  soft  hat 
to  be  some  sort  of  Protestant  clergyman.  The  latter 
bade  him  brusquely  to  be  gone  when  he  offered  him  a 
paper,  then  suddenly  turned  round  and  called  him  back. 
Though  his  instinct  bade  him  flee,  Adam  stiffened  his 
courage  and  obeyed ;  but  he  tried  to  keep  out  of  range  of 
the  long  powerful  arms;  for  he  knew  that  Protestant 
clergymen,  like  Mr.  O'Toole,  had  the  Castle  behind  them. 


ROME  AND  GENEVA  51 

"  Look  here,  my  boy,"  said  the  clergyman,  in  a  deep 
ringing  voice.  "  Not  at  my  boots.  Look  me  straight  in 
the  face — and  tell  me  whether  you  didn't  sell  me  a 
Telegraph  one  night  last  week?" 

Adam  scrutinized  him  as  directed.  "  I  believe  an*  I  did, 
your  honor." 

"  May  I  inquire  then  why  you  sold  me  one  a  year 
old?" 

Adam  answered  without  hesitation,  "Sure,  your 
Honor,  I  had  no  other." 

"What?"  cried  the  clergyman,  "you  had  no  other?" 

"  No,  indeed,  your  honor,"  answered  Adam  eagerly. 
"  I'll  just  show  your  honor,  I've  some  of  the  same  lot 
here  still.  .  .  .  Rioting  on  Queen's  Island,  that  was  the 
big  news?" 

"Well,  I'm  blowed,"  said  the  clergyman,  and  incon- 
tinently laughed.  "  I  can't  say  I  don't  think  you  a  rascal, 
my  lad,  but  you're  not  quite  the  sort  of  rascal  I  thought 
at  first.  So  here's  sixpence  to  make  amends  and  to 
remind  you  not  to  offer  to  sell  me  another  newspaper  as 
long  as  you  live." 

"I  will  not,  your  honor,"  cried  Adam,  overjoyed  at 
this  unhoped  for  denouement.  "And  thank  your  honor, 
and  God  bless  you." 

The  clergyman  looked  down  on  him  rather  wistfully. 
"  Do  you  really  wish  God  to  bless  me  ?  "  he  asked. 

"  Indeed  I  do,  your  honor,"  rejoined  Adam  earnestly. 
"If  only  I  thought  he  was  strong  enough  to  bless  a 
Prodestan." 

The  clergyman  chuckled  and  patted  him  on  the  shoul- 


52  ADAM  OF  DUBLIN 

der.  "You're  too  honest  for  the  work  you're  doing, 
my  lad.  Drop  it  if  you  can,  or  one  day  it  will  get  you 
into  trouble."  Then  he  passed  on  towards  Rutland 
Square. 

Now  this  man  who  was  a  Doctor  of  Divinity,  and, 
perhaps,  better  acquainted  with  Calvin  and  Knox  than 
was  Father  Innocent  with  Aquinas,  ought  to  have  real- 
ized that  it  was  illogical  to  warn  Adam  that  his  steps  led 
downwards  to  perdition,  and  at  the  same  time  to  butter 
the  slide  by  giving  him  sixpence.  Mr.  Sergeant  Macfie, 
M.P.  for  Larne  Dockyard,  would  not  have  done  this. 
On  his  way  home  from  the  Four  Courts,  he  had  caught 
a  glimpse  of  the  transaction,  and  overtaking  the  clergy- 
man, as  he  came  out  of  Findlater's,  said  to  him,  "  I  must 
tell  you,  Dr.  Ryde,  that  I'm  wondering  greatly  at  your 
giving  money  to  those  blackguard  boys." 

"You  couldn't  call  it  giving,"  the  clergyman  replied 
apologetically.  "  In  a  sense  I  owed  it  to  him.  .  .  . 
Anyhow  that  particular  boy  is  not  a  bit  of  a  black- 
guard. He  works  hard  for  his  living." 

"Mighty  hard,"  said  Mr.  Macfie  dryly;  "and  it's  a 
queer  thing  now,  but  I  owe  him  something  too."  He 
waited  for  his  companion  to  ask  him  what,  but  failing 
to  elicit  a  question,  volunteered  the  answer,  "You'll 
be  wondering  what  a  man  in  my  rank  of  life  would  be 
owing  to  the  like  of  him,  and  I'll  just  tell  you.  That 
very  young  fellow,  I  could  almost  swear  to  him,  in 
fact  I  would  swear  to  him,  if  the  case  arose,  just  four 
weeks  ago  last  Friday,  I  made  a  note  of  it,  extorted  from 
me  a  penny  for  a  single  copy  of  the  Evening  Mail" 


ROME  AND  GENEVA  53 

"  Why  on  earth  did  you  give  him  the  penny  ?  "  asked 
Dr.  Ryde  with  surprise. 

"  I  hadn't  a  halfpenny/'  Mr.  Macfie  explained,  "  and 
the  damned  young  liar  said  he'd  no  change." 

"  How  do  you  know  he  was  lying  ?  "  asked  the  clergy- 
man. 

"  How  do  I  know  he  was  lying  ?  "  burst  out  the  ser- 
geant. "  Man,  d'ye  think  I'm  a  fool?  .  .  .  Well,  I'll  just 
tell  you,  if  you're  so  simple,  I'll  just  tell  you  like 
A  B  C." 

"  Pray  do,"  said  DrT  Ryde. 

"  Well,  it  was  just  this  way.  I  never  buy  a  paper  in 
the  street  if  I  can  help  it,  but  this  young  blackguard 
caught  me  by  crying,  *  Sudden  Death  of  the  Attorney 
General.'  So  I  stopped  him  and  said,  '  Show  me  that 
in  your  paper  and  I'll  buy  it.'  And  will  you  believe 
me  he  had  the  impudence  to  show  it  to  me  on  the  head- 
line, and  sell  me  the  paper  and  take  my  penny  ?  " 

"  Well,"  said  Dr.  Ryde,  "  what  was  the  matter  then  ? 
I  should  have  thought  that  from  your  point  of  view  the 
news  was  cheap  at  a  penny." 

"Ah,  I  thought  you'd  say  that,  I  thought  you'd  ask 
what  was  the  matter,"  laughed  Mr.  Macfie  savagely. 
"  Man,  when  I  put  on  my  glasses  to  read  the  blessed  news 
in  the  tram,  I  found  that  blasted  Attorney-General  had 
died  suddenly  before  I  took  silk.  .  .  .  What  are  you 
laughing  at  ?  Is  it  not  a  scandal  ?  And  mind  you, 
you've  no  remedy.  You  can't  prosecute  a  lad  of  that 
age  unless  you  can  get  the  police  to  go  out  of  their  way 
to  help  you.  It's  no  laughing  matter." 


54  ADAM  OF  DUBLIN 

"  No,"  the  divine  admitted,  "  it  is  not  a  laughing  mat- 
ter. I  feel  myself  in  the  wrong  to  be  carried  away  by 
the  funny  side  of  it." 

Mr.  Sergeant  Macfie  halted  to  thump  the  pavement 
with  his  stick.  "  I  can  see  no  funny  side  to  it.  ... 
How  would  you  like  it  if  the  brat  had  cheated  you? 
Would  you  laugh  then  ?  " 

"  I'm  almost  afraid  I  might,"  the  clergyman  answered 
soberly.  "  But  I  quite  agree  that  one  ought  not  if  one 
is  cheated  .  .  . "  he  broke  off.  "  But  that  lad  was  so 
very  young." 

"  Isn't  that  what  I'm  telling  you  ?  "  snapped  Mr.  Macfie. 
"  That's  the  gravamen  of  the  whole  thing.  He's  not  too 
young  to  rob  me  of  my  money,  but  he's  too  young  for 
me  to  have  him  put  in  prison  for  it.  ...  But  I'm  from 
the  North,  and  I  don't  forget  a  thing  in  a  hurry.  I've 
got  my  eye  on  that  lad." 

"  You're  joking,"  said  the  clergyman,  stopping  with  a 
sigh  of  relief  at  his  own  door. 

"  I  am  not,"  growled  Sergeant  Macfie. 

"But  you  can't  want  to  have  vengeance  on  a  child 
for  tricking  you  out  of  a  penny  ?  " 

"  Vengeance  ?  You  mean  the  Lex  Talionis?  I  don't 
want  anything  for  myself.  Whatever  I  do  can't  bring 
me  back  the  penny;  but  I  do  insist  on  the  principle 
that  neither  old  nor  young  will  attack  me  with  impunity. 
And  I'll  be  even  with  that  young  blackguard.  A  boy 
that  begins  like  that  is  bound  to  end  on  the  gallows. 
Doesn't  the  Bible  tell  you  as  much?" 

"  Ah,  nonsense,"  retorted  the  clergyman,  suddenly  los- 


ROME  AND  GENEVA  55 

ing  his  temper.  "  My  brother,  the  moderator,  remembers 
your  cheating  at  marbles  at  the  Academy  when  you  were 
older  probably  than  that  lad  is  now." 

Mr.  Sergeant  Macfie  gnashed  his  teeth  in  panic. 
"  Man,  man,  you're  mad  to  say  that." 

The  minister  answered  shortly,  "  It's  true,  isn't  it  ?  " 

"  It  is  not.  And  if  I  did,  you  ought  to  have  the  sense 
to  know,  and  your  brother  too,  who  was  there  and 
saw  it,  that  I  did  it  in  sport,  for  the  honor  of  winning. 
There's  no  shame  in  that.  But  you're  man  daft  to  hint 
at  such  a  thing,  when  you  know  as  well  as  I  do  that 
Mountjoy  Square  is  full  of  Papists.  ..." 

Again  Dr.  Ryde  smiled.  "Not  quite  so  full  as  all 
that  ..." 

"  A  mighty  deal  too  full,"  the  barrister  insisted.  "  And 
that  damned  scoundrel  Macarthy  almost  next  door  to 
you." 

Dr.  Ryde's  smile  broadened.  "  Do  you  reckon  him  a 
Papist?" 

"Of  course  I  do.  What  else  is  he ?  but  a  scoundrel, 
a  dissolute,  good-for-nothing  scoundrel." 

"  Do  you  know  him  well  ?  " 

"  My  wife  does  and  my  daughter  does  too,  I'm  sorry 
to  say." 

The  minister  coughed.     "You  don't  know  him?" 

"  As  if  I'd  know  a  fellow  like  that,"  Mr.  Macfie  made 
outcry.  "  It's  bad  enough  to  live  in  the  same  street  with 
him.  To  say  nothing  of  those  other  damned  Papists 
you  think  nothing  of  giving  a  member  of  your  own  con- 
gregation away  before." 


56  ADAM  OF  DUBLIN 

"  Only  in  sport,"  murmured  Dr.  Hillingdon  Ryde. 

The  Sergeant  snorted,  "Thank  God,  I'm  leaving  for 
Fitzwilliam  Place,  next  quarter.  We'll  trouble  you  no 
more  at  Findlater's  Church." 

This  was  not  altogether  good  news  for  the  clergyman, 
but  he  received  it  with  a  cheerfulness  that  added  to 
the  barrister's  sense  of  wrong,  as  he  bade  him  good-night. 
"  So  you  are  coming  into  your  kingdom  ?  "  said  he,  and 
offered  not  a  felicitating  nor  yet  regretful  hand. 

"Dangerous  fellow,  Hillingdon  Ryde,"  the  Sergeant 
told  himself,  as  he  turned  his  back  on  the  house  of 
the  man  who  so  contemptuously  had  parted  from  him. 
"  I  believe  he's  almost  half  a  Home  Ruler  as  well  as 
a  prig.  ...  I  wonder  he  gets  a  Christian  to  enter  his 
church.  .  .  .  It's  well  I  told  him  no  more  about  that 
blackguard  boy,  I'm  thinking.  ..."  But  at  this  point 
he  reached  his  own  door  and  had  to  dissemble  his 
thought  before  his  housemaid,  who,  though  she  came 
from  his  own  constituency  and  was  willing  to  follow 
him  in  battle  against  the  Papists,  had  no  personal  re- 
spect for  Mr.  Sergeant  Macfie.  Nor  had  his  ronion 
wife,  nor  yet  his  lean  and  hungry-looking  daughter,  who 
jeered  at  him  across  his  dinner  table,  even  while  they 
quarreled  with  one  another  and  found  what  fault  they 
dared  find  with  the  maid. 

Meanwhile  across  the  square,  the  pastor's  wife  was 
asking  him  why  he  looked  so  black  and  angry. 

"  It's  a  shame  to  show  my  temper  before  you,"  he 
answered,  "  but  really  some  men  deserve  to  be  shot." 

"  Don't  say  that,"  she  urged.     "  You  don't  mean  it." 


ROME  AND  GENEVA  57 

He  did  not  insist  upon  the  point,  but  went  on,  "  The 
Dublin  police,  the  whole  of  the  Catholic  police  in  Ire- 
land, are  brought  up  by  their  priests  to  be  slaves  to  any 
one  in  authority.  They're  the  dullest  of  the  yokels,  all 
body  and  no  brain.  Too  stupid  to  do  anything  but  obey, 
so  long  as  they  get  their  food  and  pay." 

The  clergyman's  wife  was  not  puzzled  by  the  lacunae 
in  his  talk.  "  Yes,"  she  answered  proudly,  "  I'm  sure 
our  teaching  makes  better  men." 

"  It  does,"  he  said  bitterly,  "  but  not  better  Christians." 

She  argued  gently,  "  Surely  the  better  man  must  be 
the  better  Christian." 

"  That  sounds  to  me  all  right  when  I  say  it  in  the 
pulpit,  but  I'm  not  sure  I  can  always  apply  it  in  real 
life."  He  spoke  of  wont  to  his  wife  as  a  man  arguing 
with  himself. 

No  more  was  said  then,  nor  until  dinner  was  over  and 
the  children  gone  to  bed.  When  they  were  again  alone 
he  said,  "  Sergeant  Macfie  tells  me  he's  leaving  us  for 
the  south  side." 

"  I  knew  her  heart  was  set  on  it,"  said  Mrs.  Ryde. 
"  She  told  me  that  people  wouldn't  come  so  far  as 
Mountjoy  Square,  even  to  play  bridge." 

"  Perhaps  the  distance  was  not  their  only  objection," 
said  Dr.  Ryde  pawkily. 

His  wife  looked  up  at  him.  "  It's  a  loss,  of  course, 
but  you're  not  troubled  about  that  ?  " 

The  doctor  smiled  grimly.  "I'm  troubled  to  think 
that  although  I've  preached  at  Macfie  pretty  pointedly 
more  than  once  in  the  past  ten  years,  yet  if  we  both 


58  ADAM  OF  DUBLIN 

of  us  died  to-night  he'd  be  damned  almost  more  surely 
than  myself." 

"Bob,"  she  pleaded,  "don't  talk  so  dreadfully." 
"  Look  here,  Jinny,"  he  answered,  his  eyes  moist  with 
indignation,  "  men  like  Macfie  are  worse  enemies  of  so- 
ciety than  the  most  ruffianly  moonlighter  in  Kerry. 
They're  not  only  bad  in  themselves  but  their  position 
allows  them  to  debase  our  moral  coinage,  even  to  falsify 
the  scales  in  which  we  weigh  good  and  evil.  You  know 
it  makes  me  mad  with  rage  to  hear  of  men  cutting  the 
tails  off  cows ;  but,  I  tell  you,  Macfie,  if  he  only  dared, 
would  crush  and  mutilate  any  man,  woman,  or  child  he 
found  in  his  way.  I'd  rather  be  a  little  blackguard  boy, 
selling  papers  in  Sackville  Street,  than  that  pillar  of  our 
church." 

As  Dr.  Hillingdon  Ryde  thus  unbosomed  his  wishes  to 
his  wife,  one  such  a  little  blackguard  boy,  that  seemed  to 
be  lolling  without  a  thought  against  the  railings  of  the 
Gresham  Hotel,  was,  in  fact,  praying  fervently  to  the 
Blessed  Virgin,  for  his  conversion  from  the  errors  of 
Geneva  to  those  of  Marlborough  Street. 


CHAPTER  VI 
BUTT  BRIDGE 

EVEN  in  Dublin,  events  sometimes  march  quickly.  Adam 
had  been  filled  by  far  more  than  sixpennyworth  of 
affection  and  admiration  for  the  minister  who,  as  he 
faintly  realized,  carried  a  sufficient  soul  in  his  big  body. 
But  he  attached  little  importance  to  his  aninladversions 
on  his  trade,  assuming  that  the  clergyman  could  not 
clearly  understand  its  nature,  nor  could  he  possibly  appre- 
ciate how  great  the  labor  involved  and  how  small  the 
profit.  Of  this,  Mr.  Macfadden,  though  he  did  nothing 
beyond  taking  the  money,  constantly  complained.  In 
any  case,  and  even  if  in  possession  of  the  full 
evidence,  he  still  had  maintained  *  hostile  opinion,  how 
could  that  weigh  against  the  approval  of  Father 
Innocent? 

He  knew  from  his  own  experience,  as  well  as  the 
anecdote  of  the  man  with  the  donkey  in  the  Second 
Reading-book  (which  marked  his  highest  attainment  in 
pure  scholarship)  that  it  was  impossible  to  please  every 
one.  So  far,  except  Father  Innocent  and  his  godmother, 
he  had  succeeded  in  pleasing  no  one.  .  .  .  Even  the  mad 
old  lady,  for  whose  sake  he  had  suffered  the  perilous 
if  beautiful  ordeal  of  the  bath,  had  praised  him  with 
reservations ;  and  his  parents  consistently  envisaged  him 
59 


60  ADAM  OF  DUBLIN 

as  the  scum  of  the  earth.  His  mother  perhaps  did  not 
mean  all  she  said,  being  a  woman  of  violent  emotions 
necessarily  expressed  in  violent  language;  but  she  let 
him  feel  that  perhaps  even  more  than  her  husband,  she 
wished  that  he  had  never  been  born.  "  I  wouldn't 
have  another  muddy  brat,  not  if  you  were  to  give  me  a 
couple  of  sovereigns,"  he  heard  her  say  to  his  godmother 
whenever  they  met. 

And  as  monotonously,  Miss  or  Mrs.  Robinson  would 
reply,  "How  can  you  say  that  now?  I  always  think 
that  you're  the  lucky  one.  I  wish  I  could  have  dear 
little  Adam  for  myself.  But  sure,  how  can  I,  the  life 
I  lead?"  Monotonous  it  was,  hopelessly  monotonous, 
but  sad  and  sweet,  and  he  felt  it  as  balm  upon  the  sore 
reopened  by  his  mother.  Surely  Miss  or  Mrs.  Robin- 
son was  much  more  like  the  Blessed  Virgin  than  was 
Mrs.  Macfadden,  though  even  she  was  not  so  pretty  nor 
nearly  so  plump  as  the  holy  photographs  in  the  Pro- 
Cathedral. 

But  all  this  is  by  the  way:  the  point  is  that  the  very 
next  night  after  that  when  Dr.  Hillingdon  Ryde  had 
rejected  his  paper  and  given  himj  sixpence,  the  Reverend 
Father  Muldoon,  S.J.,  had  rejected  his  paper  and  given 
him  nothing  but  the  injunction  to  go  home  to  his 
parents  and  tell  them  not  to  send  him  out  swindling 
people.  This  message  Adam  might  have  lacked  the 
heart  to  deliver  had  not  his  father  asked  for  it.  But 
it  made  a  deep  impression  on  him  and  one  that  would 
have  been  deeper  still,  had  it  not  been  for  his  mother's 
reference  to  the  bedevilments  practiced  by  the  sinister 


BUTT  BRIDGE  61 

Lady  Bland :  "  the  worst  woman  in  Dublin,"  according 
to  him  whom  Adam  regarded,  not  without  judgment,  as 
the  wisest  and  the  best  of  men.  Adam  had  no  ponder- 
able act  of  sin  upon  his  conscience,  but  it  flashed  upon 
him  that  darkling  night  that  the  only  money  he  had  ever 
been  quite  freely  given,  apart  from  his  godmother  and 
Father  Innocent,  came  from  a  Protestant  clergyman  and 
a  mysterious  old  lady,  obviously  of  almost  supernatural 
wealth  and  power,  who  had  (as  he  now  perceived)  blas- 
phemed against  the  Mother  of  God. 

When  Adam  woke  from  the  slumber  induced  by  the 
tintely  application  of  Mr.  Macfadden's  porter  bottle,  he 
was  not  quite  the  same  lad  who  had  started  from  sleep 
the  morning  before:  he  felt  himself  in  possession  of  a 
clear,  intellectual  purpose,  quite  apart  from  the  necessity 
of  filling  his  stomach,  which  is  the  prime  motive  of  savage 
kings  and  the  civilized  poor. 

Fear  of  waking  his  parents  forbade  him  to  wash ;  but 
he  was  not  anxious  so  to  do;  for,  although  he  really 
liked  to  be  clean,  no  underfed  boy  in  any  latitude  higher 
than  the  sub-tropical,  will  for  his  pleasure  wash  in  cold 
water.  Had  he  lived  in  wonderland  he  would  have  wal- 
lowed in  his  hot  bath  twice  a  day ;  under  the  shadow  of  the 
Pro-Cathedral  he  nerved  himself  to  the  performance  of  a 
meager  ablution  before  going  out  to  sell  his  papers,  except 
on  Saturday  nights  when  his  mother  gave  him  hot  water 
to  cleanse  his  feet  for  the  Sabbath  Church  parade.  His 
hair  needed  no  attention;  as  his  mother  in  self-defense 
kept  it  close  cropped;  but  he  adjusted  his  rags  as  decently 
as  he  could,  and,  his  toilet  completed,  presented  an  ap- 


62  ADAM  OF  DUBLIN 

pearance  of  lamentable  misery,  yet  with  something  in  the 
allure  of  the  moderately  clean  little  face  and  figure  which 
forbade  even  the  callous  to  regard  him  with  disgust.  He 
had  come  to  the  use  of  reason  and  the  first  light  of  it  was 
brightening  his  eyes.  This  morning  he  wore  a  more  than 
ever  worried  look,  as,  munching  his  breakfast  crust,  he 
scrawled  on  the  blank  space  of  a  displayed  advertisement 
in  the  Telegraph,  the  words:  PAIRIENTZ,  SWIME- 
LING,  and  GEZUWIT. 

Then,  hearing  his  mother  mutter  through  his  father's 
breaking  snores,  the  sure  presage  of  coming  activity, 
and  dreading  that  he  might  be  forced  to  discuss  with 
them  what  was  in  his  mind,  he  crept  from  the  room, 
down  the  stairs,  and  round  the  corner  of  the  alley  into 
the  dull,  cold  street,  where  the  first  tram,  coming  reluc- 
tantly in  from  the  sea,  was  grinding  the  mud  out  of  the 
rails ;  the  driver  rattling  his  bell  blusteringly  through  the 
empty  place,  as  though  to  warn  phantoms  from  his  path 
or  perhaps  determine  that  while  he  labored  none  should 
sleep.  Adam  thought  it  would  be  a  grand  thing  to  be  a 
tram  driver,  just  standing  all  day  in  a  fine  warm  over- 
coat, with  nothing  to  do  but  turn  a  handle  that  made 
you  go  on  or  stop  as  you  might  fancy,  and  a  bell  to 
ring  to  cheer  you  up,  and  the  world  slipping  by  on 
both  sides  of  you  like  a  procession  with  no  beginning  or 
end. 

He  often  wondered  where  the  tram  got  to  after  it 
turned  the  corner  by  Amiens  Street  Station,  the  distant 
vista  of  which  bounded  his  world  to  the  east.  South, 
across  the  river,  lay  Stephen's  Green  and  wonderland. 


BUTT  BRIDGE  63 

West,  beyond  Sackville  Street,  he  remembered  going  with 
his  mother  via  Henry  Street,  to  look  at  the  outside  of  a 
house  in  which  somebody  had  been  murdered,  and  he 
knew  he  had  been  still  farther  than  that  in  a  place  oddly 
called  Green  Street,  which  appeared  to  be  inhabited  by 
policemen  and  gentlemen  dressed  up  as  ladies  wearing 
spectacles  and  long  gray  hair  and  carrying  big  black  bags 
his  mother  threatened  to  put  him  in  if  he  cried:  and  if 
she  had  done  that  he  would  have  been  taken  away  and 
hanged.  Going  to  Green  Street  at  all,  unless  you  were  a 
policeman  or  dressed  up  as  a  lady,  was  very  dangerous 
for  any  one  that  did  not  want  to  be  hanged.  He  did 
not  want  to  be  hanged  except  when  his  father  was  beat- 
ing him  with  the  porter  bottle :  then  he  thought  he  might 
as  well.  .  .  .  North  lay  Findlater's  Church  and  Belvedere 
College  and  Gardiner's  Street  Chapel.  Behind  them  in 
an  unthinkable  hinterland  lay  a  marvelous  country  full 
of  beautiful  flowers  and  ferocious  animals  that  would  eat 
you  if  they  got  the  chance,  but  they  never  did  which  was 
the  humor  of  it.  And  not  far  from  that  was  another 
flowery  land,  through  which  you  had  to  pass  before  you 
could  get  to  heaven.  Father  Innocent  had  promised  to 
show  him  both  these  places  the  day  he  made  his  first 
Holy  Communion,  thus  ensuring  that  it  should  be  the 
happiest  day  of  his  life. 

Pending  this  journey  to  the  Happy  Hunting  Grounds 
in  the  far  north,  his  garden  of  delight  was  the  great 
stony  space  bounded  by  the  Custom  House  on  the  east, 
Liberty  Hall  on  the  west,  a  blank  warehouse  wall  to 
the  north,  and  the  Liffey,  crossed  by  Butt  Bridge  to 


64  ADAM  OF  DUBLIN 

the  south;  with  the  railway  carried  on  pillars  above 
all,  and  mingling  the  thunder  of  invisible  wheels  with 
the  roar  of  sirens  in  the  river  and  the  clatter  of  dray 
horses'  hoofs  on  the  quays,  and  perhaps  the  note  of  an 
impassioned  orator,  crying  wrath  like  Isaiah  from  the 
window  of  Liberty  Hall. 

Even  at  this  early  hour,  the  riverside  was  livelier 
than  anywhere  else.  The  Holyhead  boat  was  in,  and 
a  train  of  outside  cars  and  cabs  rumbled  and  jolted 
up  from  the  North  Wall.  Adam  never  went  so  far 
as  that:  he  was  content  to  sit  on  the  Custom  House 
steps  and  watch  the  Bristol  boat  taking  her  cargo  below 
Butt  Bridge.  At  one  time  he  had  believed  that  she 
sailed  away  every  other  day  to  Africa,  where  his  uncle 
was  the  lord  of  all,  but  he  knew  now  that  she  only 
went  to  England,  a  country  less  remote  and  from  which 
not  only  ships  but  travelers  had  been  known  to  return. 
To-night,  when  he  was  going  to  bed,  he  would  hear  her 
trumpeting  as  she  slipped  away  from  the  quayside,  with 
the  ropes  splashing  in  the  water  that  had  drowned  Fan 
Tweedy,  and  would  make  off  down  stream  and  out  into 
the  unknown  bay  where  the  herrings  came  from,  and 
over  hundreds  and  thousands  of  miles  maybe  to  Eng- 
land. It  was  marvelous  to  think  of.  He  wished  that 
he  had  the  courage  to  scut  across  the  gangway  for  a 
single  instant  so  that  he  might  know  what  it  was  to  ad- 
venture on  the  mighty  deep.  .  .  .  Sammie  Lorgan's 
brother  Andrew  was  said  to  have  voyaged  as  far  as 
Kingstown  on  the  Integrity,  and  might  have  been  drowned 
but  for  the  prescience  of  an  aunt  who  sent  him  home  by 


BUTT  BRIDGE  65 

tram.  The  Integrity  was  a  famous  ship:  he  wished  he 
had  seen  her,  but  that  was  before  his  time.  She  had 
helped  to  tug  the  Great  Eastern  when  she  came  to  Dublin. 
His  godmother  had  shown  him  a  medal  she  had  been 
given  for  going  on  board  the  Great  Eastern  when  she 
was  a  little  baby.  She  did  not  wear  it  like  her  other 
medals ;  perhaps  it  was  too  big.  That  was  a  long  time  ago 
the  Great  Eastern  came  to  Dublin,  but  the  Custom  House 
had  been  there  before  then.  That  must  have  been  built 
about  the  time  of  Pontius  Pilate.  In  the  holy  pictures 
Pontius  Pilate's  house  looked  like  the  Custom  House. 
He  had  no  spunk  in  him,  Pontius  Pilate,  to  let  the  Jews 
kill  poor  Jesus,  when  he  could  have  told  his  soldiers  to 
cut  off  all  their  heads.  Instead  of  that,  he  let  the 
soldiers  torture  Jesus  themselves.  He  supposed  soldiers 
always  had  to  be  torturing  somebody,  and  if  Pontius 
Pilate  had  tried  to  stop  it  they'd  have  tortured  him. 
Things  like  that  happened  even  now.  And  Pontius  Pilate 
lived  ever  so  long  ago  before  any  one  was  clever  enough 
to  find  out  what  Jesus  really  meant.  Nothing  had  hap- 
pened before  Pontius  Pilate  except  Daniel  in  the  lion's 
den,  and  Joseph  in  the  well,  and  Noah  in  the  ark,  and 
Adam  and  Eve  in  the  Garden  of  Eden.  He  wondered 
why  he  was  called  Adam.  He  did  not  live  in  any 
sort  of  garden.  He  never  had  heard  of  any  little 
girl  being  called  Eve.  Was  it  because  Eve  was  a 
downright  bad  lot?  Perhaps  Lady  Bland  was  called 
Eve?  .  .  . 

At  this  though  he  awoke  to  the  work  in  hand.     It 
was  nearly  nine  o'clock.     Soon  he  would  be  allowed 


66  ADAM  OF  DUBLIN 

to  see  Father  Innocent  if  he  called  at  the  Presbytery 
and  said  it  was  urgent.  Was  it  so  urgent  as  all  that? 
Did  it  matter  to  any  one  if  he  had  a  good  or  a  guilty 
conscience?  .  .  .  Yes,  it  mattered  to  Father  Innocent, 
he  was  sure  of  that. 


CHAPTER  VII 

MARLBOROUGH  STREET  AND  GARDINER'S 
STREET 

ADAM  shivered  as  he  roused  himself  to  stand  up,  for 
you  get  the  east  wind  blowing  up  the  river  as  the  tide 
rises  under  Butt  Bridge.  .  .  .  He  passed  beneath  the 
railway  arches  as  a  train  boomed  menacingly  overhead, 
and  beyond  Liberty  Hall  into  Abbey  Street.  ...  At 
the  corner  of  Marlborough  Street  his  eye  was  caught 
by  big  black  letters  on  a  yellow  ground,  "  The  Playboy 
of  the  Western  World."  ...  He  wondered  what  that 
meant.  It  was  placarded  on  the  wall  of  the  Abbey 
Theater;  that  queer  little  house  where  there  used  to 
be  the  grand  fighting,  as  he  often  heard  tell  outside 
the  Gresham.  What  was  a  playboy,  and  where  the 
Western  World?  Did  that  mean  America  or  just  Green 
Street,  or  something  between  the  two? 

He  was  passing  the  Pro-Cathedral.  .  .  .  Hesitating 
a  moment  he  invoked  the  Blessed  Virgin,  took  the  steps 
by  assault  and  captured  the  bell.  He  had  to  ring  a 
second  time,  and  the  janitor,  who  tardily  answered, 
rebuked  his  precipitancy  and  threatened  to  send  him 
about  his  business.  .  .  .  But  insisting  that  his  only  busi- 
ness was  with  Father  Feeley,  he  was  admitted  within 
the  door,  albeit  no  farther.  The  hall  smelt  deliciously  of 
fried  fish — he  remembered  it  was  Friday — things  would 
67 


68  ADAM  OF  DUBLIN 

have  been  easier  to  carry  through  on  a  Sunday;  there 
would  have  been  more  time.  .  .  .  Father  Innocent  had 
just  said  Mass  and  was  at  breakfast.  But  he  lost  no 
time  about  coming  to  Adam  in  the  hall ;  and,  on  learning 
that  he  was  come  with  something  more  than  a  message, 
brought  him  to  his  own  little  room  to  hear  what  he  had 
to  say. 

"  There's  nothing  wrong  at  home,  my  dotey  boy,  is 
there  ?  "  he  asked ;  "  'tis  long  since  I've  seen  your  good 
mother."  It  was  indeed  some  years,  not  that  Mrs.  Mac- 
fadden  failed  to  make  her  "  Easter  Duty,"  but  she  pre- 
ferred to  have  her  confessor  in  another  parish. 

Mr.  Macfadden  was  content  to  see  that  his  family 
attended  to  their  religion,  but  for  himself  insisted  that 
Sunday  was  a  day  of  rest  and  the  other  days  he  never 
knew  when  he  might  have  to  work  hard,  so  he  granted 
himself  a  plenary  indulgence.  Apart  from  ceremonial 
observance,  he  was  as  devout  a  Catholic  as  you  could 
find  in  Count  Street,  and  woe  betide  the  man  or  woman 
who  belittleB  the  Faith  in  his  hearing  and  within  range 
of  his  boots. 

"If  only  the  prosecutions  would  begin  again,"  he  was 
fond  of  saying  by  way  of  table-talk,  "  I'd  show  them 
who  was  the  true  Catholic.  Luthermiyelbo."  .  .  .  For 
a  long  time  Adam  believed  "  Luthermiyelbo  "  must  be 
another  way  of  saying  "Amen,"  but  Father  Innocent 
told  him  that  this  was  not  so,  and  although  Mr.  Mac- 
fadden, of  course,  meant  no  harm  by  it,  Adam  ought  not 
to  repeat  it. 

"  For  Martin  Luther  was  a  priest,  though  a  bad  one, 


MARLBOROUGH  STREET  69 

and  you  must  never  speak  disrespectfully  of  any  priest, 
not  even  me."  .  .  .  This  explanation  had  the  quite 
undesired  effect  on  Adam's  mind  of  lightening  the  dia- 
bolical darkness  of  the  Monk  of  Wittenberg  by  a  ray  of 
glory  from  the  halo  of  Father  Innocent. 

Adam  found  it  almost  easier  to  talk  to  him  than  to 
the  Blessed  Virgin;  for  he  had  the  benefit  of  replies 
which  allowed  him  to  elucidate  what  he  said.  It  was 
not  long  before  he  had  given  him  full  and  accurate 
details  of  what  had  passed  not  only  between  him  and 
Father  Muldoon,  but  with  the  minister.  Father  Inno- 
cent alternately  laughed  and  was  grave.  "  And  wasn't  I 
the  silly  fool,"  he  said  more  than  once,  "  not  to  have 
understood  about  the  papers  long  ago."  He  concluded, 
"There's  an  idea  now.  .  .  .  Who  put  you  up  to  it? 
.  .  .  And  how  is  it  your  parents  didn't  know  about  it  ?  " 

"  They  knew  all  about  it,"  said  Adam  readily.  "  They 
thought  it  was  a  grand  idea." 

The  priest  looked  at  him  severely.  "Don't  tell  me 
your  mother  said  that." 

"  Sure,  she  did,  sir,"  said  Adam,  "  and  used  to  get  me 
the  papers  herself  until  she  tired  of  it." 

Father  Innocent's  face  took  an  expression  of  horrified 
melancholy.  "  Then  it  was  actually  she  put  you  up  to 
it?" 

"  Her  and  Mr.  O'Toole." 

"  Who's  Mr.  O'Toole  ?  "  the  priest  asked,  then  went  on 
hurriedly,  as  though  to  avoid  hearing  the  answer,  "  Who- 
ever he  is,  he  put  you  up  to  a  mortal  sin." 

So  far  Adam  had  been  rather  agreeably  titillated  by 


70  ADAM  OF  DUBLIN 

the  interview,  but  now  his  face  fell  as  he  asked,  "Am 
I  going  to  hell?" 

"Arrah,  nonsense,"  returned  the  priest  testily,  "God 
doesn't  send  little  boys  to  hell  for  obeying  their  parents, 
not  if  they  went  and  stopped  coaches  on  the  high  road, 
which  is  worse  than  selling  old  papers  for  new,  there 
being  an  element  of  violence,  which  is  a  sin  itself,  apart 
from  the  wrong  done  to  others.  But  you've  got  to  give 
it  up  at  once.  No  papers  to-night,  Adam,  mind  ye  that, 
not  if  you  could  sell  them  for  a  shilling  apiece.  Better 
starve  than  break  the  law." 

"  Me  father  will  belt  me,"  said  Adam,  in  a  voice  that 
trembled  on  the  verge  of  a  whimper. 

The  priest  was  horror-stricken.  "What!"  he  cried, 
putting  several  additional  aspirates  in  the  word  to  em- 
phasize it. 

"  Me  father  will  belt  me,  but  I'm  used  to  that,"  said 
Adam,  adding,  with  a  relapse  into  the  piteous,  "I'd 
rather  be  belted  than  go  to  hell  or  do  anything  you  told 
me  not." 

"There,  there,  my  dotey  boy,"  said  Father  Innocent, 
almost  kissing  him  in  the  desire  to  express  his  sympathy. 
"  No  one  will  belt  you,  much  less  your  father.  Why 
would  he  belt  you  I'd  like  to  know  ?  " 

"  If  I  don't  sell  the  papers,  I'll  bring  no  money  home, 
and  then  he'll  have  no  mt>ney  for  porther,  or  at  least 
he  won't  have  as  much  as  he  does  be  wanting." 

"God  help  us,  this  is  a  terrible  story,"  quoth  Father 
Innocent.  "  I've  heard  of  this  happening  in  some  families 
that  had  no  religion,  but  I  never  thought  a  Christian 


MARLBOROUGH  STREET  71 

man  could  send  his  son  out  to  swindle  people,  that  he 
might  have  money  to  drink.  Not  that  I  mean  to  judge 
your  father.  I'm  only  telling  you  what  is  in  my  mind, 
knowing  that  you're  a  wise  fellow  for  your  age  and 
you  will  forget  what  I  tell  you  when  you  leave  this 
room." 

This  proposition  appeared  to  Adam  as  of  the  nature 
of  a  paradox ;  but  he  did  not  say  so. 

"  Whatever  are  we  to  do  ?  "  Father  Innocent  went  on ; 
after  much  cogitation  he  shook  his  head.  "I'm  a  silly 
fellow  to-day.  I  think  I'll  just  pray  to  God  Almighty 
for  His  guidance."  He  plumped  down  then  and  there 
on  the  floor  and  crossed  himself.  "  In  the  name  of  the 
Father  and  of  the  Son  and  of  the  Holy  Ghost.  Amen." 
Then  he  buried  his  face  in  his  hands  and  Adam  heard 
but  the  mutter  of  his  prayer.  It  did  not  occur  to  him 
to  join  in  it:  two  people  ought  not  to  speak  at  once, 
unless,  of  course,  they  use  the  same  words;  then  the 
more  the  better. 

Adam's  eyes  wandered  inquisitively  about  the  room. 
Except  that  it  was  tidier  and  much  smaller,  it  resembled 
his  own  home,  and  through  the  window  one  had  just 
the  same  outlook,  only  seen  from  a  different  angle : 
melancholy  backs  of  tall  brick  houses,  variegated  by 
patches  of  wood  and  corrugated  iron  or  zinc;  down 
below  squalid  yards,  sheds,  stables,  and  laneways;  and 
over  all  a  spider's  web  of  wires  and  the  petrified  Nelson 
with  his  back  turned,  looking  towards  the  south  side  and 
no  doubt  wishing  that  he  too  might  remove  thither. 

Father  Innocent  arose,  an  easier  man.     "The  best 


72  ADAM  OF  DUBLIN 

thing  to  do,"  said  he,  "  is  to  see  that  you  don't  get  belted 
any  more.  And  as  it  was  Father  Muldoon  who  saved 
you  from  wrongdoing  last  night,  I  think  we  can't  do 
better  than  go  and  tell  him  the  whole  story,  and  see 
whether  perhaps  he  can't  do  something  more  for 
you.  .  .  .  He's  an  awfully  clever  man  and  most  influ- 
ential. Not  like  me,  that  knows  nobody  but  yourself." 

Adam  was  much  uplifted  at  the  thought  that  Father 
Muldoon  was  so  powerful  he  could  save  him  from  a 
belting.  Father  Innocent  stood  hesitant,  his  hand  on 
the  door.  "  I  wonder  now,  could  I  get  him  on  the 
telephone  and  ask  him  if  he's  there  at  Gardiner's  Street 
or  not.  .  .  .  Better  not,  he  might  think  it  a  piece  of 
impudence  from  me." 

Adam  thought  the  Jesuit  must  be  a  grand  hard  man 
as  well  as  powerful,  if  he  looked  down  on  Father  Inno- 
cent. The  latter  looked  at  his  watch  and  then  took  his 
hat  and  umbrella.  "  I  think  we'll  just  step  up  to  Gardi- 
ner's Street  and  see  if  we  can't  catch  him  before  he  goes 
out.  If  he  won't  see  us,  sure  we  can  only  wait  till  he  can. 
Anyhow  we'll  be  getting  on  in  the  right  direction.  Come, 
my  dotey  boy." 

Proud  was  Adam  to  be  seen  by  the  leisured  world 
of  Maryborough  Street,  taking  the  air  upon  its  door- 
steps, in  the  company  of  his  spiritual  adviser  and  to 
hear  from  area  to  area  as  they  passed  along  a  murmurous 
buzz  of  inquiry  as  to  the  wherefore  of  it  all.  Proud 
was  he  to  leave  the  reek  of  the  slums  behind  and  climb 
beside  his  panting  benefactor  the  steep  ascent  of  North 
Great  George's  Street,  down  which  avenue  lowered 


MARLBOROUGH  STREET  73 

grimly  gracious  Belvedere.  Arrived  at  the  top  they 
encountered  the  tall  minister,  Dr.  Hillingdon  Ryde,  with 
a  lady  and  a  boy  rather  bigger  than  Adam  passing  the 
schoolhouse  gate.  The  priest  and  he  exchanged  cordial 
greetings  and  Adam  was  taken  aback  when,  crossing 
Temple  Street,  Father  Innocent  said,  "  That's  one  of  the 
best  men  in  Ireland,  but  remember  you're  never  to  lift 
your  cap  to  him  unless  he  first  takes  notice  of  you." 
Adam  grasped  that  this  injunction  was  based  on  dogma, 
and  not  to  be  questioned. 

He  noticed  that  Father  Innocent  had  much  the  same 
nervousness  at  the  last  moment  in  ascending  the  steps 
of  the  Jesuit  House  as  he  had  at  Marlborough  Street. 
But  the  door  was  more  promptly  opened  and  there  was 
no  difficulty  made  about  their  admission  to  a  hall  which 
smelt  only  of  beeswax,  and  further  to  an  apartment 
most  handsomely  furnished  with  a  round  table  and 
serious  looking  arm-chairs,  and  decorated  with  large 
square  portraits  of  churchmen  of  all  decrees,  with  saintly 
glances  and  beatific  smiles,  all  looking  straight  at  you, 
so  that  no  matter  in  what  part  of  .the  room  you  tried  to 
hide  yourself,  you  felt  that  every  one  of  them  had  both 
his  eyes  on  you.  Adam  had  a  momentary  attack  of 
nerves :  he  felt  he  was  not  nearly  good  enough  for  their 
company.  It  was  a  relief  to  gather  from  Father  Innocent 
that  they  were  all  dead,  but  disturbing  to  be  told  that 
not  one  of  them  was  a  patch  on  Father  Muldoon,  who 
seemed  to  Adam  a  comparatively  ordinary  man. 

In  this  room,  however,  he  proved  to  be  much  iriore 
impressive  than  in  the  street,  and  a  very  much  pleasanter 


74  ADAM  OF  DUBLIN 

gentleman.  He  kept  them  waiting  but  made  up  for  it 
when  he  arrived,  looking  in  his  soutane  and  biretta,  as  if 
he,  too,  might  one  day  hope  to  figure  among  the  portraits 
on  the  wall. 

He  countered  Father  Innocent's  apology  for  intruding 
on  him  by  reproaching  him  for  not  telephoning.  n  Then 
I  could  have  arranged  things  so  as  not  to  waste  your 
time." 

"  Oh,  indeed,  father,  what  is  my  time  compared  with 
yours?"  Father  Innocent  protested. 

"  That  we  shall  not  know  before  eternity,"  said  the 
Jesuit,  and  they  both  laughed,  and  Adam  wondered  at 
their  joking  about  such  a  serious  subject.  "  It  is  delight- 
ful to  be  favored  by  a  visit  from  my  Parish  Priest.  It 
makes  me  feel  at  home  again." 

"Every  soul  in  Dublin,  you  might  say,  was  glad  to 
have  your  reverence  safe  home  from  the  other  side  of 
the  world,"  said  Father  Innocent,  adding  to  his  com- 
panion, "  Just  think  of  that  now,  Adam ;  Father  Mul- 
doon,  who  is  talking  to  us  now  here  in  his  room,  just 
as  if  nothing  wonderful  had  ever  happened  to  him, 
only  yesterday,  as  you  might  say,  was  preaching 
God's  Holy  Word  to  multitudes  standing  on  their 
heads." 

Adam  murmured  his  recognition  of  this  gratifying 
news,  worthy  to  figure  in  his  conversation  outside  the 
Gresham  Hotel,  where  the  marvelous  was  valued.  He 
hoped  that  the  great  Father  Muldoon  would  explain  how 
he  did  it,  but  the  great  man,  modestly  reticent  as  to  his 
achievement,  continued,  "  Yes,  the  Irish  Province  is  a 


MARLBOROUGH  STREET  75 

very  interesting  one  and  so  varied.  I  believe  it  is  the 
most  extensive  in  the  visible  world.  ...  I  only  wish  it 
were  not  so  thinly  populated."  His  tone  grew  brisk. 
"  But  it  is  for  you  to  tell  me  your  news  and  not  to  listen 
to  my  chatter." 

Father  Innocent  thereupon  introduced  the  subject  of 
Adam's  unintentional  breach  of  the  laws  of  God  and 
man,  laying  proper  stress  on  Father  Muldoon's  part  in 
saving  him  from  the  threatened  abyss. 

The  great  man  listened  in  becoming  silence,  then  turned 
to  Adam  and  said  sharply,  "  No  doubt  you  thought  me 
very  hard  last  night,  but  I  may  tell  you,  my  lad,  Father 
Feeley  is  quite  accurate  in  saying  I  saved  you  from  the 
abyss.  The  police  have  had  the  tip  from  some  one  in 
high  authority  to  lay  their  hands  on  any  boy  they  find 
trying  to  do  the  sort  of  thing  you've  been  doing.  And 
although  I'm  not  sure  that  a  lad  of  your  age  could  be 
put  on  his  trial,  I  dare  say  you  know  that  a  policeman 
can  make  it  pretty  hot  for  you  without  taking  you  as  far 
as  the  station." 

"  That's  the  truth  indeed,"  declared  Father  Innocent, 
"  and  once  you  have  the  police  against  you  in  Dublin, 
sure  there's  no  more  hope  for  you  here.  You'd  better 
book  for  America  at  once,  before  you're  old  enough  for 
them  to  clap  you  in  Kilmainham  Jail." 

"  I  won't  go  so  far  as  to  say  that,"  said  Father  Mul- 
doon.  "  There's  more  than  one  God-fearing  man  in  the 
Police." 

"Indeed  and  of  course  there  is,"  Father  Innocent 
agreed.  "  There's  no  harm  in  the  police  as  men  at  all. 


76  ADAM  OF  DUBLIN 

It's  only  their  work  that  makes  them  brutal,  like  butchers 
you  might  say.  They  forget  the  poor  dumb  animals 
have  feelings  like  themselves.  And  if  one  of  them  hap- 
pens to  remember  he  was  born  an  Irishman,  and  that  his 
father  and  mother  were  poor  Irish  people,  then  the 
Castle  ..." 

Father  Muldoon  stopped  him  with  a  smile  and  a  wave 
of  the  index  finger  of  his  right  hand.  "  No  politics, 
please,  Father  Feeley,"  he  said.  "We  are  agreed  that 
the  lad  must  be  kept  out  of  the  hands  of  the  police  .  .  . 
if  that  is  in  our  power  ..." 

"  Of  course  it's  in  our  power,"  answered  Father  Inno- 
cent hotly.  "  We've  only  to  give  him  a  fair  chance  and 
it's  the  back  of  my  hand  to  the  police." 

"In  those  days  of  competition,"  said  the  Jesuit,  with 
calculated  coolness,  "it  is  not  so  easy  to  give  a  lad  a 
fair  chance  as  you  call  it." 

Father  Innocent  made  a  movement  towards  the  door, 
slight,  but  not  to  be  neglected  by  Father  Muldoon.  "  I've 
a  notion  that  if  the  lad  were  a  Presbyterian  he  wouldn't 
find  it  so  hard,"  was  all  he  said. 

Father  Muldoon  knit  his  brows.  "  I  see,"  he  said,  and 
rang  the  bell.  "  This  is  quite  interesting."  There  was  a 
tap  at  the  door  and  the  black  beard  of  the  janitor  ap- 
peared. "  John,"  said  Father  Muldoon,  "  just  ring  me 
up  Rathmines,  Double  Three,  and  tell  me  when  you  get 
them."  When  the  man  was  gone  he  addressed  himself 
solemnly  to  Adam:  "This  is  a  great  moment  in  your 
life,  my  lad.  I  hope  you  will  always  remember  it.  I 
am  going  to  invoke  the  greatest  power  in  Ireland  in  your 


MARLBOROUGH  STREET  77 

behalf.  .  .  .  That  is,  if  I  am  so  fortunate  as  to  get  him 
on  the  telephone." 

In  a  few  moments  the  janitor  returned  with  the  an- 
nouncement that  the  great  power  was  holding  the  line, 
and  Father  Muldoon  momentarily  so  forgot  his  dignity 
as  to  bustle  forth  to  get  in  touch  with  him ;  which  Father 
Innocent  hastened  to  explain  to  Adam  was  an  act  of 
marked  condescension  on  the  part  of  the  provincial. 
When  he  returned,  and  considering  the  greatness  of  the 
occasion  he  was  not  unconscionably  long,  he  carried  a 
visiting  card  which  he  handed  to  Adam.  "  Bring  that 
down  to  the  Herald  office  in  D'Olier  Street,  the  publish- 
ing department,  do  it  now,  and  they'll  arrange  for  you  to 
have  as  many  copies  of  the  next  edition  as  you  think  you 
can  sell.  Those  you  don't  sell,  if  there  be  any  you  don't 
sell,  you  understand  you  bring  back  before  the  next  is 
issued.  They'll  tell  you  the  time." 

"  Oh,  thank  you,  Father,"  cried  Father  Innocent, 
clasping  his  hands. 

"  Don't  thank  me,"  said  the  Jesuit  dryly.  "  Later  on 
I'll  see  what  can  be  done  about  the  Telegraph.  But,  I 
think  it  would  be  as  well  for  Macfadden,  if  that's  his 
name,  to  promise  us  now  that  on  no  account  what- 
ever, will  he  ever  sell  another  copy  of  the  Evening 
Mail." 

"  Oh,  indeed,  your  reverence,"  Father  Innocent  has- 
tened to  answer  for  him.  "  Sure,,  Adam  Macfadden's  the 
best  little  Catholic  in  the  world,  and  he'll  never  dream  of 
doing  anything  your  reverence  tells  him  not." 

"  I'm  waiting  to  hear  him  promise,"  the  Jesuit  an- 


78  ADAM  OF  DUBLIN 

swered  shortly.  "  If  he  can  do  so  he'd  better  speak  up  for 
himself." 

Adam  looked  him  in  the  face,  wounded  by  his  treat- 
ment of  Father  Innocent.  "  I  promise  never  to  sell  any 
more  Late  Buffs,"  he  answered. 

"Does  that  include  the  early  ones?"  the  Jesuit  in- 
quired, with  the  air  of  a  man  of  the  world. 

"  Sure  there's  no  early  ones,"  Adam  returned,  unable 
to  conceal  his  contempt  for  his  pretentious  ignorance. 

Both  priests  burst  out  laughing  and  the  Jesuit  pro- 
duced a  shilling.  "  There,"  said  he,  "  that  is  for  being 
a  good  little  Catholic,"  and  so  saying,  he  shook  their 
hands  quite  affably  and  bowed  them  out. 

Descending  the  steps,  Adam  decided  that  Gardiner's 
Street  smelt  proudly  as  Fitzwilliam  Square  and  was  just 
elevenpence  more  wonderful. 


CHAPTER  VIII 
OLD  COMET 

As  Adam  trotted  along  beside  Father  Innocent,  who 
had  to  hurry  back  to  his  proper  work,  he  had  little  time 
to  meditate  on  the  change  in  his  fortunes.  What  struck 
him  most  was  the  grandeur  of  Father  Muldoon,  more 
powerful  than  the  mad  old  lady,  more  munificent  than 
the  minister,  and  in  no  way  afraid  of  the  police.  He 
had  supposed  all  good  Catholics  to  be  afraid  of  the 
police:  the  only  people  who  ever  got  the  better  of  them 
were  the  Protestant  young  gentlemen  from  Trinity  Col- 
lege, who  knocked  them  about  for  fun,  and  the  red- 
coats from  over  the  sea,  who  tripped  them  up,  kicked 
them  in  the  stomach  and  even  stabbed  them  with  their 
sidearms  with  impunity,  unless  they  fell  into  the  hands 
of  the  other  soldiers  with  red  caps  and  the  legend  M.P. 
blazoned  on  their  sleeves.  Sometimes  a  couple  of  women 
might  get  a  constable  down  and  scratch  his  face;  but 
they  rarely  had  the  sense  to  get  away  before  other  con- 
stables came  to  the  rescue,  twisted  their  arms  off  until 
they  fainted,  and  then  carried  them  away,  tied  down  on 
stretchers,  and  got  them  fourteen  days  as  violent  drunks. 
It  was  on  this  rather  than  his  own  future  he  reflected 
as  he  descended  North  Great  George's  Street  and  left 
the  newly  discovered  northern  wonderland  behind.  Marl- 
79 


8o  ADAM  OF  DUBLIN 

borough  Street  looked  the  same  as  he  had  left  it  an  hour 
before,  and  Count  Street  had  in  no  way  improved  since 
he  had  seen  the  first  tram  plow  it  in  the  early  morn. 
Father  Innocent  brought  him  back  to  his  own  room  at 
Marlborough  Street  and  made  him  wash  and  tidy  himself 
before  proceeding  to  carry  Father  Muldoon's  introduc- 
tion across  O'Connell  Bridge  to  the  Herald  office.  His 
parting  advice  to  him  was  to  tell  his  mother  fully  what 
had  happened,  and  to  leave  it  to  her  to  tell  Mr.  Mac- 
fadden,  if  she  thought  fit.  And  in  a  rare  moment  of 
worldly  wisdom  he  added,  "  If  you  make  more  money 
than  you  did  before,  you'd  better  give  it  to  your  mother 
and  say  nothing  to  your  father."  But  he  did  not  say  what 
excuse  Adam  was  to  advance  in  the  event  of  his  mak- 
ing less. 

The  first  night  was  a  great  success.  Adam  threw  a 
light  heart  and  a  joyful  voice  into  his  trade,  and,  assisted 
by  a  juicy  murder  in  Whitechapel,  found  that  the  de- 
creased profit  was  amply  compensated  for  by  the  rapidity 
of  the  turnover.  He  was  already  ninepence-half penny 
to  the  good  and  had  ceased  for  the  moment  to  cry  his 
wares,  that  he  mdght  rest  his  voice,  and  perhaps  dream- 
ing a  little  of  the  marvelous  changes  the  day  had  rung 
for  him,  when  he  was  conscious  of  a  well-dressed  gentle- 
man (as  he  would  have  called  him)  with  a  smart  mus- 
tache and  a  tall  hat,  pushing  his  way  through  the  posse  of 
yelling  boys,  who  offered  him  papers.  Adam  had  smiled 
before  now  to  see  how  often  and  how  vainly  this  stranger 
had  been  besieged  in  much  this  fashion;  the  other  boys 
seemed  convinced  by  the  nobility  of  his  appearance  that 


OLD  COMET  81 

he  must  prove  a  valuable  quarry  could  they  but  once  bay 
him  into  surrender.  Yet  Adam  could  recall  only  one  oc- 
casion on  which  he  had  bought  a  paper,  and  that  was 
from  himself.  Instinct  sanctioned  by  experience  forbade 
Adam  to  offer  him  another,  and  to-night  he  did  not  even 
catch  the  eye  that  was  thrown  on  him  as  .he  passed. 

Yet  suddenly  the  gentleman,  when  freed  from  the 
pursuit  of  the  other  boys,  turned  back  towards  Adam 
and  produced  a  threepenny  bit,  holding  it  so  that  the 
light  from  the  electric  street  lamp  shone  on  it  tantaliz- 
ingly.  "  I  want  a  Mail''  he  said  briskly. 

"Yes,  your  honor,"  Adam'  smartly  answered,  ;and 
put  his  hand  to  his  mouth  to  call  to  the  nearest  of  his 
competitors,  "  Patsy,  gentleman  here  wants  a  Late  Buff." 

The  piece  of  silver  instantly  disappeared.  "Damn 
your  impudence.  I  asked  you  for  a  Mail  and  no  one 
else." 

"  I've  only  the  Herald,  your  honor,"  replied  Adam  re- 
spectfully, knowing  that  it  was  not  merely  futile  but 
dangerous  to  betray  temper. 

"  Then  why  didn't  you  say  so  when  I  asked  you  if 
you  had  a  Mail?  " 

"You  didn't  ask  him  anything,"  broke  in  the  sum- 
moned Patsy,  disgruntled  to  the  verge  of  war.  "You 
said  you  wanted  a  Mail,  I  heard  you,  and  here  it  is  for 
a  penny,  if  you're  a  gentleman,  and  a  halfpenny  if  you're 
not." 

He  whose  gentility  was  in  the  balance  beat  the  pave- 
ment feverishly  with  his  stick.  "  You're  a  pretty  pair, 
the  two  of  you,"  he  snapped,  then  swung  on  his  heel  and 


82  ADAM  OF  DUBLIN 

marched  off ;  but  not  quick  enough  to  avoid  the  repartee, 
"And  you're  a  muddy  old  snot,"  flung  after  him  by  a 
chorus  of  them  whose  hopes  he  had  so  often  deluded. 

"  That  old  blackguard,  whoever  he  is,  was  on  your 
track  to-night,"  said  Patsy.  "  It's  well  you  twigged  it 
about  the  Mail,  and  called  me." 

Adam  was  about  to  tell  him  the  real  why  and  where- 
fore of  his  having  only  the  one  paper  when  a  stage- 
whisper  of  prodigious  strength  reached  them  from,  the 
other  boys,  "  Nix,  nix.  .  .  .  Here's  old  Comet,"  followed 
by  a  crying  of  their  papers  in  the  dulcet  and  decorous 
tones  in  which  they  used  once  a  week  to  acquaint  the 
world  that  they  were  little  Catholics  and  loved  their 
holy  faith. 

Adam  straightened  himself  to  present  his  best  ap- 
pearance before  "  Old  Comet,"  who,  he  understood,  was 
a  Chief  Inspector  of  Police  or  something  equally  ter- 
rific. But,  for  all  that  he  skinned  his  eyes  and  pricked 
up  his  ears  he  neither  saw  nor  heard  any  one  in  the 
shape  or  carriage  of  a  policeman  approach ;  and,  although 
Patsy  had  lost  heart  and  run  across  the  street  under 
the  pretense  of  seeing  some  one  beckoning  to  him  from 
Gilbey's,  the  other  boys  were  laughingly  shoving  their 
papers  under  the  spectacled  nose  of  an  old  gentleman  who 
kept  waving  them  aside,  apparently  much  distressed. 
Adam  felt  quite  sorry  for  him,  and  wished  that  he  had  the 
courage  to  protest  against  such  treatment  of  a  defenseless 
old  man. 

"  Sure  I've  no  time  to  read,  boys.  What's  the  good 
of  offering  me  your  papers?"  Adam  heard  him  say. 


OLD  COMET  83 

"  Sure  there's  nothing  in  the  papers  a  decent  old  man 
like  me  would  like  to  read.  .  .  .  Whitechapel  murder, 
is  it?  Indeed  and  I'll  not  read  about  a  murder  this 
night  in  dread  that  I  might  see  a  ghost.  .  .  .  Thank 
God  the  noble  Metropolitan  Polis  kape  us  all  safe  from 
that  sort  of  thing  over  here.  ..."  There  was  a  roar  of 
delighted  laughter,  but  he  continued  to  shake  his  head 
stolidly  and  pathetically.  "Ah,  let  me  be,  now,  I  tell 
you.  And  don't  be  laughin'  at  a  harmless  old  man, 
going  home  to  his  ma."  Suddenly  he  stopped.  "  Well, 
if  I've  got  to  buy  a  paper  off  one  of  you,  I'd  like  to 
have  one  that  has  nothing  about  that  bloody  murder 
in  it."  He  looked  round  the  group,  which  Adam  had 
gradually  drifted  into  or  been  engulfed  by,  as  though 
he  expected  a  serious  tender  of  an  expurgated  journal; 
but  none  came. 

"  Very  well,  then,"  said  he,  "  if  I've  got  to  read  about 
that  nasty  mturder,  I'd  like  to  read  nothing  about  it 
that  would  upset  my  tea;  so  I'll  just  take  a  Herald. 
I  know  that  will  have  nothing  wrong  in  it,  for  Mr. 
Murphy  is  a  particular  friend  of  mine."  .  .  .  The  end 
of  the  sentence  was  drowned  in  roars  of  shrill 
mirth. 

Adam  was  standing  open-mouthed  and  wondering  why 
he  laughed  at  jokes  about  murder,  when  he  felt  a  curious 
thrill,  of  dreamlike  acuteness  as  the  laughter  of  the 
others  oddly  hushed  and  the  eyes  of  all  turned  on  him- 
self: the  funny  old  gentleman  was  drawing  one  of  his 
last  papers  from  his  hand.  For  an  instant  a  cold  sweat 
burst  over  him,  and  he  mumbled  a  Hail  Mary  under 


84  ADAM  OF  DUBLIN 

his  breath,  terrified  by  those  powers  of  darkness  known 
to  him  vaguely  as  the  Law. 

The  old  gentleman  took  off  very  deliberately  the  spec- 
tacles he  was  wearing  when  he  had  opened  the  paper,  but 
Adam  was  too  frightened  to  think  this  odd;  he  did  not 
even  wonder  why  he  had  not  been  paid;  he  stood  spell- 
bound, waiting,  as  did  the  others,  though  he  thought  he 
heard  Patsy,  somewhere  behind,  mutter,  "Run,  you 
omadhawn,  run."  Quite  a  number  of  voices  within  as 
well  as  without  took  up  the  theme,  "  Run,  run,  run  for 
your  life,  run,  run,  run." 

Then  the  pursed  lips  of  the  old  gentleman  expanded 
into  a  smile,  which  ended  in  a  guffaw.  "  That's  grand 
news,  that  Whitechapel  murder,"  he  said,  folded  the 
paper  neatly  and  put  it  in  his  hat.  "  I  don't  mind  giving 
you  thrippence  for  the  like  of  that,"  and  he  pressed 
three  copper  coins  into  Adam's  rigid  hand.  Then  he 
turned  with  a  grim  smile  that  slew  the  vacuity  of  the 
moment  before,  to  the  still  gaping  knot  of  boys.  "  I 
can  tell  you  honorable  young  gentlemen,  that  I  know 
some  one  who  has  a  far  worse  opinion  of  you  than  I 
have  myself."  He  dropped  his  voice  to  add,  "  And  what's 
more,  I  have  the  blessed  privilege  to  inform  you  that 
they  breed  as  big  fools  in  Belfast  as  in  Dublin 
itself." 

The  boys,  freed  from  their  ensorcelled  restraint, 
clamored  eagerly,  "  Who  is  it  you  name,  sir  ?  Is  it  the 
old  stinker  in  the  top  hat  ?  " 

"  That  would  be  telling  you,"  laughed  the  old  gentle- 
man with  a  cheery  wink,  that  took  in  the  whole  circle, 


OLD  COMET  85 

and,  abruptly  dropping  all  pretense  of  a  shuffle,  he 
stepped  out  like  a  guardsman  and  disappeared. 

"  Faix,  you'd  a  worse  shave  than  ever  that  time,"  said 
Patsy  to  Adam.  "  I  dunno  how  it  was  Old  Comet  didn't 
have  you." 

Adam  answered  not.  He  was  clinging  to  the  Gresham 
railing,  trembling  in  every  limb.  "Look  here,"  said 
Patsy,  "don't  you  go  and  swound  or  maybe  the  polis 
will  let  on  you've  a  sup  taken.  You're  all  right  now. 
Didn't  Old  Comet  give  you  the  thrippence  to  own  up 
he  was  bet.  He's  a  muddy  old  terror  is  Old  Comet, 
and  he's  hanged  more  men  than  any  wan  in  Ireland, 
but  he  loses  like  a  gentleman  and  bears  no 
malice." 

The  three  coppers  dropped  from  Adam's  hand  and 
rolled  their  several  ways  across  the  wide  pavement  to 
the  gutter.  It  was  perhaps  the  supremest  moment  of 
Patsy's  young  life,  when  he  elected  to  stand  by  Adam 
instead  of  chasing  them.  Fat  Sammie  Horgan  col- 
lared the  lot;  but  another  bigger  boy  intervened,  took 
them  from  him  at  the  cost  of  his  naked  shin  barked 
by  the  choralist's  boots,  and  offered  two  to  Adam,  keep- 
ing the  third  for  himself  by  way  of  salvage. 

Adam  saw  them  not,  and  the  boy  stared  at  his  white 
face.  "  He's  dead  surely  ?  "  he  whispered,  awestruck,  to 
Patsy. 

Patsy  shook  a  head  that  was  contemptuous  of  the 
bigger  boy's  ignorance.  "  Not  a  bit  of  it.  He's  only 
scared  to  death  by  Old  Comet.  Hold  up  his  other  arm, 
and  we'll  get  him  home  between  us." 


86  ADAM  OF  DUBLIN 

"Is  it  far?"  the  other  inquired  judiciously,  but  not 
without  goodwill. 

"  Round  in  Count  Street  only.  You'll  be  back  before 
you  know  you're  there."  Patsy  pleaded  for  his  friend 
and  with  success. 

Adam  was  very  vaguely  conscious  of  being  moved 
along  by  hands  that  had  not  been  trained  to  gentleness, 
and  screamed  with  terror;  but  a  kindly  voice  said  in  his 
ear,  "  Be  aisy  now.  It's  Patsy  Doyle  and  Big  Finegan 
that  has  hold  of  you,  bringing  you  home." 

After  that  he  glimpsed  only  sharp  flashes  of  light 
and  heard  a  tram  grinding  familiarly  through  Count 
Street;  then  an  angry  voice,  his  mother's  telling  him  to 
wake  up  and  not  be  an  idiot,  then  his  father's  voice  and 
a  stunning  blow  and  he  was  reeling  among  the  rags  on 
his  bed. 

But  when  he  was  wakened  again  it  was  by  a  voice 
more  like  Emily  Robinson's.  He  looked  up  expectantly 
and  saw  a  rosy-faced  sister,  and  gasped  out,  surprised 
at  the  piping  of  his  own  tone,  "What's  this  grand 
place?" 

He  was  prepared  to  hear  that  it  was  a  bedroom  in 
heaven;  and  it  had  to  be  broken  to  him  very  slowly, 
first  by  the  rosy-faced  sister,  then  by  a  cheerful,  jocular, 
baldish  gentleman,  who  never  tired  of  peeping  (as  he 
called  it)  at  his  tongue,  and  finally  by  Father  Innocent 
Feeley,  the  only  reliable  authority,  that  he  was  still  on 
earth. 

The  previous  Sunday  Mr.  Sergeant  Macfie  had  fastened 
himself  upon  the  minister  as  they  walked  up  Gardiner's 


OLD  COMET  87 

Row  and  said,  "  I  notice  that  young  blackguard  I  told 
you  of  is  gone  from  outside  the  Gresham  Hotel.  I  bet 
you  now  he's  come  to  no  good." 

The  minister  answered  simply,  "I  suppose  we  shall 
see  little  of  you  after  to-day  ? "  So  the  great  man  could 
not  well  pursue  the  subject  of  his  little  triumph. 

As  they  spoke,  the  astral  body  of  one  of  them  was 
hovering  above  the  prostrate  form  of  a  little  boy,  trying 
to  drop  the  noose  of  a  rope  around  his  neck.  This  curi- 
ous scene  was  taking  place  just  half  a  mile  away,  at  the 
Mater  Misericordiae  Hospital.  At  the  foot  of  the  bed 
stood  another  figure,  affable  and  respectable,  jingling 
in  one  hand  three  coppers,  and  in  the  other  thirty  silver 
shillings. 


CHAPTER  IX 
THE  MOTHER  OF  MERCY 

THE  weeks  that  Adam  spent  in  hospital  were  of  great 
influence  on  his  development,  for  as  soon  as  he  was  well 
enough  to  sit  up  the  sister  presented  him  with  a  penny 
exercise  book,  in  which  his  pencil  had  room  to  play,  and 
he  filled  it  with  oft  repeated  words  as :  FEEVR,  FEE- 
VUR,  FEEVER;  DOKTR,  DOCKTR,  DOCKTUR, 
DOCTUR,  DOCTER,  DOCTOR;  KYNS,  KINES, 
KINNESS,  KINDESS,  and  at  last  KINDNESS. 
There  were  also  pages  with  sinister  looking  adumbra- 
tions of  vocables,  beginning  with  H  and  M  and  P  and 
R,  which  the  doctor  advised  the  sister  to  tear  up  while 
the  patient  slept.  He  never  complained  of  their  dis- 
appearance, and  soon  ceased  to  waste  paper  on  them; 
but  from  time  to  time,  he  would  scratch  down  anxiously 
the  strange  symbol — OLCOMT,  and  burst  into  tears. 
Concerning  this  he  neither  offered  nor  could  be  persuaded 
to  divulge  any  sort  of  explanation;  so  when  the  sister 
saw  the  first  three  letters  appear  she  would  make  some 
excuse  to  take  the  pencil  away ;  and  Adam  opposed  this 
in  no  way.  He  always  smiled  at  her  whatever  she 
did,  and  his  gratitude  failed  not  even  when  she 
washed  him;  for  he  believed  that  the  hospital  belonged 
to  her,  and  that  she  was  as  powerful  as  the  mad  old 


THE  MOTHER  OF  MERCY  89 

lady  and  Father  Muldoon  together,  and  incomparably 
kinder. 

She  really  was  very  kind,  from  the  professional  point 
of  view  too  much  so ;  for  when  she  ought  to  have  been 
asleep  in  bed,  she  would  find  some  excuse  to  remain 
by  his  side  to  read  him  Canon  Schmidt's  Tales,  which 
he  regarded  as  a  terrifying  if  delicious  work;  for  it 
convinced  him  that  the  police  treated  French  noblemen 
even  worse  than  they  did  Dublin  paper-boys.  She  even 
allowed  him  to  take  this  book  in  his  own  hands,  although 
it  was  very  precious  to  her;  for  inside  the  cover  was 
pasted  a  certificate  setting  forth  in  appropriately  chaste 
form  that  she  had  won  it  as  the  First  Prize  for  Deport- 
ment, at  the  Loretto  Convent,  Rathfarnham,  where  it 
had  been  presented  to  her  at  the  end  pf  the  scholastic 
year,  terminating  in  the  summer  of  the  last  year  of  that 
gracious  monarch  whose  name  had  been  so  often  on 
Adam's  lips,  though  only  in  the  way  of  business.  But 
Adam  found  it  too  alarming  to  read  by  himself,  the 
Sister  not  at  hand  to  assure  him  that  these  things  had 
never  happened,  or  if  they  did  that  it  was  a  long  time 
ago,  before  any  one  she  knew  could  remember,  and  there 
was  no  possibility  of  their  ever  occurring  again.  Virtuous 
French  noblemen  were  no  longer  guillotined,  just  as 
priests  and  nuns  were  no  longer  burned,  or  hanged,  drawn, 
and  quartered  even  in  London.  Only  really  downright 
very  wicked  people  were  put  to  death  nowadays.  .  .  . 
Adam  perceived  that  he  must  never  let  her  suspect  how 
narrowly  he  had  escaped  the  gallows. 

On  the  back  of  the  exercise  book  were  sets  of  measures 


90  ADAM  OF  DUBLIN 

and  multiplication  tables.  When  alone  he  preferred 
their  study  to  that  of  Canon  Schmidt,  and  easily  com- 
mitted the  tables  to  memory;  though,  as  he  did  so  with- 
out seeing  in  them  anything  more  than  mere  arbitrary 
figures,  he  had  difficulty  in  saying  off  hand  whether  it 
were  twice  two,  or  four  times  four  or  twelve  times  twelve 
that  produced  the  memorable  total  of  one  hundred  and 
forty-four.  Had  the  terms  of  the  proposition  taken  the 
concrete  form  of  twelve  dozen  copies  of  the  Herald,  he 
would  have  been  quite  clear  about  it. 

Father  Innocent  brought  him  a  nice  clean  copy  of 
that  scholastic  masterpiece  too  modestly  described  as 
the  Penny  Catechism,  and  the  contents  of  that  were 
promptly  stowed  away  in  the  receptive  little  brain,  next 
door  to  the  multiplication  tables.  He  would  chant  him- 
self to  sleep  with  alternate  verses,  so  to  speak,  from  the 
Ten  Commandments  and  Ten  times  Ten,  until  they 
merged  in  each  other  and  he  slumbered.  Father  Inno- 
cent proudly  noted  his  name  for  Confirmation.  .  .  . 
"  Glory  be  to  God,  that  dotey  child  will  live  to  be  a  saint," 
he  said  to  the  sister. 

She  smiled.  "He  is  a  dotey  child,"  she  agreed,  but 
added,  "I  wonder  what  will  become  of  him  when  he 
leaves  us?"  Even  she  was  more  worldly  wise  than 
Father  Innocent.  Meanwhile  she  conspired  with  the 
doctor  that  he  should  not  be  flung  back  into  Count 
Street  in  too  great  a  hurry. 

Not  that  anything  was  known  at  the  hospital  against 
Adam's  parents.  Father  Innocent  would  say  no  more 
than  that  they  were  unfortunate  poor  people,  but  he 


THE  MOTHER  OF  MERCY  91 

never  heard  anything  against  their  being  good  Catholics. 
Mrs.  Macfadden  created  a  tolerably  good  impression 
when  she  came  once  a  week  to  see  her  son.  She  was 
sober,  better  clad  than  they  had  anticipated  from  the 
appearance  of  Adam,  most  respectful  to  every  one,  if 
most  of  all  to  the  hall-porter,  which  showed  tact,  and 
her  conversation  with  her  son  revolved  round  the  idea 
how  glad  he  ought  to  be  of  the  chance  of  dying  among 
Catholics  now,  instead  of  perhaps  later  on  falling  into 
the  hands  of  Prostutelizers,  which  was  true  and  edifying 
though  crudely  put  and  not  perhaps  as  cheerful  as  the 
sort  of  talk  the  doctor  recommenced.  The  sister  her- 
self felt  it  necessary  to  warn  him  against  the  ways  of 
proselytizers,  with  whom  he  had  obviously  already  had 
some  parley,  if  no  more.  He  asked  the  sister  if  she 
thought  his  mother  was  at  all  like  the  Blessed  Virgin. 
She  said  she  had  not  noticed  any  resemblance,  but  could 
see  that  she  was  a  very  good,  kind,  and  wise  mother ; 
for  she  had  not  attempted  to  smuggle  in  any  presents 
for  him,  which  was  against  the  rules. 

Adam  looked  up  at  her  round,  comely  face.  "You 
really  are  like  the  Blessed  Virgin,"  he  blurted.  She 
reddened  and  dropped  her  hand  on  his  mouth,  and  told 
him  that  if  he  said  such  wicked  things  he  would  make 
her  cry;  but  he  heard  her  singing  softly  to  herself  im- 
mediately afterwards,  and  she  brought  a  fresh  book  to 
read  to  him  next  day,  with  thrilling  illustrations  of  the 
different  methods  by  which  the  curious  might  anticipate 
being  burned  in  Hell.  But  the  doctor  put  his  ban  on 
that  at  once,  and  she  gave  him  a  fresh  exercise  book 


92  ADAM  OF  DUBLIN 

instead,  which  he  after  all  preferred,  as  he  could  now 
draw  people  burning  in  hell  for  himself.  He  expected  the 
sister  to  be  much  dismayed  by  these ;  but,  having  closely 
scrutinized  a  whole  series  of  the  eternally  damned,  she 
only  asked,  "Who  dropped  their  dollies  on  the  grass?" 
.  .  .  Nevertheless,  he  drew  a  picture  of  a  policeman, 
which  was  after  a  long  process  of  elimination,  identified 
as  such,  so  he  felt  encouraged  to  attempt  an  elaborate 
composition  embracing  the  Bristol  boat,  the  Custom 
House,  and  the  Butt  Bridge,  with  the  railway,  but  they 
got  so  confused  that  he  lost  his  temper  and  tore  the  paper 
and  began  to  cry,  until  sister  came  to  him  and  soothed 
him  with  the  rhymed  legend  of  a  maternal  householder, 
possessing  a  dog  whose  variety  was  infinite  as  Cleopatra's. 

Telling  the  sister  that  she  was  like  the  Blessed  Virgin 
brought  into  Adam's  mind  his  godmother,  in  whom  he 
had  also  long  ago  seen  some  slight  resemblance.  He 
wondered  that  she  never  came  to  see  him.  He  asked 
the  sister  if  godmothers  were  not  admitted.  She  said 
she  knew  of  no  obstacle,  and  advised  him  to  consult 
his  mother.  But  he  knew  better  than  to  do  that.  He 
made  up  his  mind  to  ask  Father  Innocent,  and  one  day, 
when  the  little  priest  had  arrived  unwontedly  sad  and 
silent,  he  broached  the  subject. 

"  Father,"  said  he  in  a  low  voice,  "  I  do  be  often 
thinking  of  my  godmother,  Miss  Emily  Robinson." 

The  little  priest  started  and  raised  his  eyes  until  they 
fell  upon  the  boy's  face.  Adam  was  plucking  nervously 
at  the  bedclothes,  his  own  eyes  downcast  and  uncon- 
scious of  Father  Innocent's  scrutiny.  His  mind  might 


THE  MOTHER  OF  MERCY  93 

have  been  far  away  in  place  and  time,  as  far  as  the 
tether  of  his  little  life  allowed. 

"Glory  be  to  God,  my  boy,"  said  Father  Innocent. 
"  What  put  it  in  your  head  to  ask  me  that  ?  " 

"  I  only  thought  she'd  be  more  like  to  come  than  my 
mother  if  she  knew  the  place  I  was." 

"  She  does  know,  but  she  can't  come,"  said  Father 
Innocent. 

"  Why  can't  she  come  ?  Won't  they  let  her  ?  "  Adam's 
tone  was  peevish. 

"  No,"  said  Father  Innocent  solemnly,  "  they  won't  let 
her.  God  won't  let  her." 

Adam  felt  something  chilly  creep  swiftly  down  his 
back.  He  visualized  a  garden  he  had  never  seen. 
"Where  is  she?"  he  asked  in  a  frightened  underSreath. 

Father  Innocent  did  not  directly  answer.  "  You  said 
you  do  be  often  thinking  of  her,  Adam.  Tell  me,  do 
you  ever  pray  for  her?  " 

Adam  was  always  at  pains  to  give  Father  Innocent 
not  merely  true  but  explicit  answers.  "  Sister  makes 
me  pray  for  my  father  and  mother  every  day,  and  I 
always  pray  for  you  and  Mrs.  Robinson  and  Patsy 
Doyle,  who  was  kind  to  me  outside  the  Gresham,  and 
a  Protestant  gentleman,  as  once  gave  me  sixpence,  and 
Father  Muldoon,  when  I  remember,  but  I  never  pray 
for  Mr.  O'Toole;  for  he's  a  blackguard  and  I  hate  the 
sight  of  him." 

"  If  he  is  that,  then  maybe  he  wants  it  most  of  all, 
except  myself,"  said  Father  Innocent.  "  But  I'm  glad 
you  pray  for  your  dear  godmother;  for  she  deserves  it 


94  ADAM  OF  DUBLIN 

most  of  all  ...  except,  of  course,  your  poor  mother, 
who  has  more  trials  than  you  know  of."  He  was  silent 
for  a  moment  as  though  uncertain  whether  to  say  more 
or  to  take  his  departure. 

At  last  he  took  Adam's  hand.  "I'm  going  now,  but 
before  I  say  good-by,  I  want  to  ask  you  to  do  some- 
thing for  me.  Will  you  do  it  now  ?  " 

Adam's  little  breast  swelled  with  mingled  awe  and 
self-importance  as  he  asked  what  it  was. 

"  It's  just  this,"  said  Father  Innocent.  "  Though  God 
help  me,  I  can  ill  afford  it,  I  want  you  to  give  my  bit 
of  your  prayers  to-night  to  add  to  Mrs.  Robinson's  bit, 
and  if  you  should  wake  in  the  night,  to  turn  your  pil- 
low, maybe,  I  want  you  to  say  to  God  with  all  your 
heart  and  soul,  Be  good  to  my  godmother,  Emily  Robin- 
son, for  she  was  good  to  me,  a  little  child  there  were  few 
to  care  for.  .  .  .  And,  then,  maybe,  when  the  morning 
comes  and  you  hear  the  birds  singing,  maybe  Emily 
Robinson  too  will  be  singing  in  heaven,  because  God  had 
heard  your  prayer." 

Adam's  ready  tears  trickled  on  the  priest's  hand. 
"She's  dead?"  he  tried  to  say,  and  the  priest  guessed 
at  the  words  and  answered,  "  She's  dying  surely.  I  gave 
her  Extreme  Unction,  coming  here.  And  I  told  her 
I  was  coming  here  to  see  you,  and  she  couldn't  get  a 
word  out  of  her,  poor  saint,  but  her  eyes  sent  you  her 
love.  ..."  His  own  tears  mingled  with  Adam's.  .  .  . 
"  You'll  pray  for  her,  my  dotey  boy,  you're  too  young  to 
understand  how  needful  it  is  that  you  should  be  prayin' 
for  her,  but  that  will  make  your  little  offering,  from  your 


THE  MOTHER  OF  MERCY  95 

own  sick-bed,  where  the  cruelty  of  the  world  has  sent 
you,  as  it  sent  her  to  hers,  all  the  more  gracious  in  the 
sight  of  God." 

"  I'll  pray  for  her,  Father,"  whispered  Adam,  and  the 
little  priest  hurried  away. 

"  Father  Innocent  is  a  lamb,"  declared  the  sister,  when 
she  came  on  night  duty.  "But  sure  I  wish  he  didn't 
make  you  cry." 

"  It  isn't  him,"  Adam  responded.  "  It's  my  godmother's 
dying,  and  I  can't  remember  now  how  he  told  me  to 
pray  for  her." 

The  sister  was,  of  course,  touched  but  equal  to  the 
occasion.  "  Oh,  if  that's  all,"  she  said,  and  supplied  him 
promptly  with  a  pretty  little  conventional  appeal  for 
speedy  recovery  or  happy  death.  She  was  sorry  for 
Miss  or  Mrs.  Robinson,  but  mainly  concerned  that  her 
patient  should  not  lie  awake  pondering  the  mystery  of  the 
departure  of  the  soul. 

Adam  dutifully  repeated  the  words  after  her,  but  with- 
out any  conviction  that  they  could  catch  God's  ear,  and 
yawned  and  said  good-night,  and  kissed  her,  and  yawned 
again,  and  went  to  sleep.  But  in  the  middle  of  the  night 
he  awoke  with  a  vibrant  desire  at  all  costs  to  help  Miss  or 
Mrs.  Robinson.  At  the  end  of  the  ward  he  could  see  the 
sister  nodding  over  the  Life  of  the  Cure  d'Ars.  ...  In 
perfect  silence  he  slipped  out  of  bed  and  dropped  on  his 
knees.  The  words  Father  Innocent  had  taught  him  came 
flooding  back  now :  "  Be  good  to  my  godmother,  Emily 
Robinson,  for  she  was  good  to  me,  a  little  child  there 
were  few  to  care  for."  He  repeated  this  phrase  again  and 


96  ADAM  OF  DUBLIN 

again  with  an  ever  growing  fervor  for  the  safety  of  his 
godmother's  soul;  but  still  he  was  not  sure  that  God 
heard.  .  .  .  Then  an  inspiration  seized  him  and  he  cried 
aloud,  "  Holy  Mary,  tell  God  that  He  must  be  good  to 
Emily  Robinson,  for  she  was  good  to  me,  a  little 
child  ..." 

The  next  instant  he  was  in  the  sister's  arms  and  back 
in  bed,  but  she  was  too  late  to  save  him  from  pneumonia. 


CHAPTER  X 
MOTHER  GOOSE'S  FAIRY  TALES 

FROM  first  to  last,  what  with  typhoid  and  pneumonia, 
Adam  spent  many  weeks  in  hospital — he  had  been  well 
content  to  fulfil  his  mother's  wish  and  end  his  life  there. 
But  the  doctor,  though  he  scolded  the  sister  quite  unduly 
for  her  carelessness  in  letting  him  slip  out  of  bed,  car- 
ried him  through  to  a  definite  convalescence.  .  .  .For  a 
considerable  period  the  pencil  and  exercise  book  were  put 
away,  and  he  was  allowed  nothing  to  read  and  no  visi- 
tors. .  .  .  Mother  Hubbard's  dog  had  fallen  a  victim 
to  custom  and  his  excellent  parts  were  losing  interest 
when  Father  Innocent  reappeared  at  last,  phenomenally 
gay  as  are  only  those  whose  days  are  sorrowful. 

"  I'd  have  a  right  to  spank  you  for  getting  out  of  bed 
and  catching  cold,"  he  said,  "but  sure  I'm  a  silly  old 
fellow  with  a  weak  heart,  and  instead  of  bringing  you  a 
big  cane,  I've  brought  you  a  story  book  about  the  most 
wonderful  adventures  were  ever  heard  of,  and  I 
greatly  misdoubt  if  the  half  of  them  are  true.  But  you 
can  form  your  own  opinion,  which  is  better  than 
mine,  for  it's  many  a  long  day  since  I've  had  time  to 
read  it." 

Adam  only  said,  "  Oh,  Father,"  but  his  eyes  glistened 
and  his  thin  fingers  clutched  like  a  miser's  at  the  book; 
97 


98  ADAM  OF  DUBLIN 

it  was  an  honest  square  volume,  neatly  covered  with 
brown  paper. 

"  Mind  you,"  said  Father  Innocent,  "  it's  only  as  a  lend 
I'm  giving  it  to  you;  and  you're  not  to  go  tearing  the 
pictures  out  for  sister  here  to  hang  on  the  wall,  nor  are  you 
to  be  doing  your  higher  mathematics  on  the  margins.  For 
my  own  dear  mother  gave  it  to  me,  you'd  never  be  able  to 
guess  how  long  ago,  but  years  and  years  it  was,  before 
ever  there  was  a  motor-car  on  the  streets  of  Dublin,  or 
Mr.  Murphy's  beautiful  trams,  with  the  electricity  stream- 
ing through  them,  that  we're  going  on  one  of  these 
days  maybe,  you  and  I,  to  the  Park,  maybe,  to  hear  the 
lions  roar  at  the  Zoo  and  the  crocodiles  if  they  have  any, 
or  the  Botanical  Gardens,  where  Mr.  Moore,  Sir  Fred- 
erick, I  should  say,  makes  the  palm  trees  grow  higher 
than  they  do  at  home  in  Africa  or  the  Coral  Islands  of  the 
South  Sea,  bubbles  and  all.  ...  I  often  think  of  the 
inimitable  goodness  of  God,  making  these  coral  islands 
out  of  nothing  you  may  say  for  babies  yet  unborn  and 
thousands  of  miles  away  anyway,  to  cut  their  teeth  on. 
Oh,  He's  good  to  children  surely,  and  to  none  more  than 
me,  for  He  gave  me  the  best  mother,  I  think  ever  was,  and 
she  gave  me  that  beautiful  book  long  before  I  had  the 
sense  to  understand  how  fine  it  was,  for  I  wasn't  a  clever 
fellow  like  you,  my  dotey  boy,  and  she  had  to  put  me  in 
the  corner  for  three  hours  by  an  American  clock  she  had 
that  the  more  you  wound  it  the  less  it  went,  for  blueing 
Bluebeard's  beard  with  a  blue  and  red  pencil  I  took  off 
my  father's  desk.  He  was  at  the  head  of  an  office  in 
Brunswick  Street  and  would  have  been  a  very  clever  man 


MOTHER  GOOSE'S  FAIRY  TALES          99 

if  he  hadn't  died.  The  Lord  have  mercy  on  him  .  .  .  and 
that  reminds  me  you'd  better  not  read  Bluebeard,  for  it's 
hardly  fit  for  a  child,  being  too  like  what  you  come  across 
every  day.  Of  course  there  never  was  a  man  with  a  blue 
beard  out  of  the  Gaiety  or  the  Theater  Royal,  but  he  was 
a  bad  Catholic  even  if  his  beard  had  been  ordinary.  .  .  . 
God  forgive  me,  but  you  might  call  him  a  perfect  heathen 
if  not  a  heretic.  But  I  may  be  wrong  about  that." 

Adam  promised  to  be  careful  with  the  book  and  to 
refrain  from  reading  Bluebeard,  so  Father  Innocent  left  it 
in  his  hands,  and  he  opened  it  at  the  title  page  to  see  that 
it  was  called  Mother  Goose's  Fairy  Tales,  and  at  the  top 
of  it  was  written  in  a  graceful,  not  too  legible  sloping 
hand,  "  To  Innocent  Mary  Patrick  Feeley,  on  his  Sixth 
Birthday,  from  his  Loving  Parents,  12th  October, 
1880." 

That  was  a  gorgeous  afternoon  while  he  lay  there 
cozily,  after  Father  Innocent  was  gone,  turning  over  the 
pictures,  and  discussing  them  with  himself  and  sister 
whether  he  should  begin  with  "  The  Goose  that  laid  the 
Golden  Eggs,"  or  "  Cinderella  and  the  Glass  Slipper,"  or 
"Jack  the  Giant-Killer,"  or  "The  Ugly  Duckling,"  or 
"  Aladdin  and  the  Wonderful  Lamp,"  or  "  Goody  Two- 
Shoes,"  or  "  Ali  Baba  and  the  Forty  Thieves,"  or  "  The 
Babes  in  the  Wood,"  or  what.  He  told  her  that  he 
had  promised  Father  Innocent  not  to  read  "  Bluebeard," 
and  pointed  out  to  her  the  remains  of  the  pigment  which 
Father  Innocent's  mother  had  put  him  in  the  corner  for 
applying  to  Bluebeard's  beard.  .  .  .  Sister  advised  him 
also  to  pass  over  "The  Babes  in  the  Wood"  for  the 


ioo  ADAM  OF  DUBLIN 

present,  "  For  I'm  sure  I  couldn't  read  it  to  you  without 
crying  myself,"  said  she.  "  It's  about  little  children  that 
lost  their  parents." 

Adam  did  not  regard  this  as  an  overwhelming  mis- 
adventure, but  he  had  no  more  desire  for  tears  than  for 
horrors ;  so  he  eschewed  the  "  Babes  in  the  Wood  "  as 
readily  as  "  Bluebeard."  The  sister  then  suggested  as 
a  novelty  that  he  should  begin  at  the  beginning,  and  read 
"  The  Goose  that  laid  the  Golden  Eggs,"  which  was  the 
very  first  story  in  the  book,  and  seemed  by  the  pictures 
to  be  agreeably  bucolic  and  healthy  in  tone.  She  had  an 
idea,  or  at  least  gave  Adam  that  cheerful  impression, 
that  thanks  to  co-operation,  geese  laying  golden  eggs 
might  yet  be  hatched  in  Ireland.  Although  he  politely 
insisted  on  her  continuing  to  read  to  him,  and  when  his 
head  ached,  it  soothed  him  to  hear  the  drone  of  her 
voice  he  found  that  he  really  enjoyed  the  stories  more 
when  he  spelled  them  out  for  himself ;  and,  at  the  second 
reading,  he  covered  the  ground  faster  than  she  could 
read  aloud. 

All  the  stories  were  interesting  and  mildly  exciting; 
though  he  thought  their  heroes  very  fatuous  young  gen- 
tlemen. "  Jack  the  Giant-Killer  "  was  the  only  one  that 
showed  striking  intelligence,  some  of  his  ways  of  avoid- 
ing or  circumventing  leviathans  might,  he  fancied,  be 
tried  against  the  police,  should  the  like  concatenation  of 
circumstances  present  themselves:  he  noted  with  regret 
that  John  was  an  Englishman.  A  particularly  silly  fel- 
low was  the  one  who  got  the  chance  to  wish  himself 
anything  under  the  sun  and  only  used  it  to  get  himself 


MOTHER  GOOSE'S  FAIRY  TALES         101 

into  worse  trouble  than  he  was  in  already.    Adam  had 
no  patience  with  that  fellow  at  all. 

On  the  other  hand,  there  was  Aladdin.  Adam  felt 
special  interest  in  him  because  he  was  the  son  of  a 
tailor,  a  poor  tailor,  and  lived  in  a  great  city,  and  had 
an  uncle  who  went  to  Africa.  The  parallel  with  his 
own  life  ended  there;  for  Aladdin  was  a  wicked  little 
boy  who  (it  was  implied,  though  not  precisely  stated  in 
the  text)  played  pitch  and  toss  in  the  streets,  and  broke 
most  of,  if  not  all  the  Commandments.  Almost  the 
wonderfullest  part  of  his  story  was  that  there  was  no 
mention  of  his  parents  smacking  him  with  a  porter 
bottle.  Adam  thought  this  a  deplorable  want  of  common 
sense  on  their  part;  yet  it  seemed  to  have  had  no  ill 
effect  on  the  development  of  Aladdin's  character;  for, 
notwithstanding  his  unpromising  beginning,  he  grew  up 
a  well-spoken,  modest,  and  charming  young  man,  quite 
without  blatherumskite,  and  as  ingenuous  as  Father  In- 
nocent. It  seemed  incredible  that  he  should  have  neg- 
lected to  give  the  wicked  magician  penal  servitude  for 
life  the  moment  he  was  freed  from  his  power.  That 
was  asking  for  trouble  later  on.  He  would  visualize  the 
wicked  magician  as  Old  Comet,  in  a  dressing  gown,  with 
a  Turkish  towel  wrapped  round  his  head,  and  a  paralyz- 
ing smile  of  false  benevolence  playing  over  his  counte- 
nance. .  .  .  Then  Adam  would  shudder  and  let  fall 
Mother  Goose's  Fairy  Tales  from  his  hands ;  for  he  had 
neither  ring  nor  lamp  to  protect  him  from  those  powers 
of  darkness  owning  neither  God  nor  man,  though  latent 
in  the  mind  of  all. 


CHAPTER  XI 
THE  PRICE  OF  CONVALESCENCE 

AT  last  Adam  was  well  enough  not  only  to  rise  from  his 
bed  but  to  walk,  and  not  only  to  walk  but  to  dress  and 
go  out  beneath  the  open  sky.  Though  a  cheerful  enough 
little  patient  in  his  bed,  he  left  it  as  one  who  has  no  will 
to  live:  he  saw  himself  as  flung  out  from  fairyland  to 
darkness.  Between  the  sheets  he  was  Haroun-al-Raschid, 
Commander  of  the  Faithful ;  leaving  them  he  must  clothe 
his  naked  fancy  in  the  rags  of  Adam  the  Dublin  newsboy. 

But  the  fairies  had  not  left  him  yet.  Instead  of  his 
rags  sister  gave  him  a  suit  that,  if  not  new,  was  in 
perfect  repair,  and  a  little  shirt  and  collar  and  eke  a 
tie,  with,  most  admirable  of  all,  stockings,  and  a  pair  of 
boots.  The  latter  were  humanly  speaking  necessary ;  for 
after  so  long  an  illness  his  bare  feet  had  lost  their  power 
of  resistance  to  the  stony  ground.  But  Adam  did  not 
think  so  much  of  this  comfort  as  of  the  distinction 
which  they  lent  to  his  appearance.  He  tried  to  recall  how 
they  compared  with  Sammie  Horgan's,  and  longed  to  be 
back  at  the  Gresham  Hotel  to  show  them  off.  He  did  not, 
however,  contemplate  their  effect  on  Count  Street. 

Before  he  was  discharged  from  the  hospital,  Father 
Innocent  was  allowed  to  bring  him,  by  way  of  an  airing, 
for  the  long  promised  excursion  to  the  Botanical  Gar- 


THE  PRICE  OF  CONVALESCENCE        103 

dens.  It  was  a  June  day  and  balmy,  so  they  climbed 
on  top  of  the  tram  at  the  north  end  of  Eccles  Street, 
and  off  they  went,  swishing  and  roaring  into  the  North 
Circular  Road,  and  around  to  the  left  up  over  the  canal 
bridge,  and  then  round  to  the  right  at  a  place  Father 
Innocent  called  "  Dunphy's  Corner,"  though  there  was 
nothing  to  indicate  why  it  should  so  be  called.  But  any- 
how it  was  a  notable  spot;  for  there  one  pair  of  rails 
forged  straight  ahead  to  the  left,  to  carry  the  Phoenix  Park 
tram  past  the  tram  depot  and  the  famous  church  of  the 
Vincentians  they  were  to  visit  some  day,  the  tower  of 
which  might  have  fallen  down  if  God  had  not  held  it  up 
(said  Miss  or  Mrs.  Robinson,  the  Lord  have  mercy  on 
her!),  past  the  place  where  the  cattle  were  killed  (there 
was  a  flock  of  lambs  on  the  road  going  there  now,  with 
queer  red  marks  on  their  little  gamey  backs)  to  the  place 
where  the  lions  and  tigers  were:  cruel  beasts  that  ate 
you  if  they  got  the  chance  .  .  .  only  they  never  got  the 
chance.  It  was  satisfactory  to  remember  that.  They 
were  in  cages  with  iron  bars,  and  even  if  they  broke  these 
when  no  one  was  looking  in  the  night,  they  would  still 
have  to  get  out  of  their  strong  brick  houses,  and  if  they 
got  out  of  them,  there  were  fences  and  ditches  and  turn- 
stiles (Father  Innocent  said  a  turnstile  would  almost 
surely  baffle  a  lion  or  a  tiger),  and  even  if  they  got  out  of 
all  the  things  that  were  put  there  to  keep  them  in,  they 
would  then  find  the  police  from  the  constabulary  depot 
drawn  up  outside,  only  too  pleased  to  have  something  to 
shoot  down.  Adam  carried  the  thought  further  still :  even 
if  they  killed  and  ate  the  police,  guns  and  powder  and 


104  ADAM  OF  DUBLIN 

shot  and  bayonets  and  belts  and  boots  and  helmets  and 
all,  that  would  be  still  no  good ;  for  they  would  have  the 
Castle  against  them  then,  and  sooner  or  later  Old  Comet 
would  get  them,  with  poisoned  herrings,  maybe,  as  you 
get  rats. 

Outside  the  public-house  at  Dunphy's  Corner  stood 
an  empty  hearse,  and  the  like  was  to  be  seen  at  every 
place  of  entertainment  in  the  Glasnevin  Road.  There 
were  heaps  more  careering  gaily  home,  the  horses  toss- 
ing their  Grenadier  caps  in  the  air.  Adam  took  off 
his  cap  to  every  one  of  them  until  Father  Innocent  bade 
him  forbear.  "  My  dotey  boy,"  said  he,  "  you  needn't 
be  taking  a  fresh  cold  for  the  sake  of  these  hearses, 
any  more  than  if  they  were  so  many  wheelbarrows. 
While  they  hold  the  mortal  remains  of  the  faithful 
departed,  we  show  them  our  respect;  but  empty,  they 
are  no  more  than  empty  dustcarts."  He  added,  "  Indeed, 
even  with  the  coffins  in  them,  I  cannot  see  that  they 
are  much  better  than  dustcarts  then.  But  the  Church 
sanctions  the  old  custom  of  respecting  the  body  even 
when  it  has  ceased  to  be  the  temple  of  the  soul." 

"  Why  ?  "  asked  Adam ;  for  as  Father  Innocent  put  it, 
he  could  not  but  feel  that  it  was  absurd. 

"  I  am  too  ignorant  to  tell  you  why,"  the  priest  an- 
swered. "They  may  have  told  me  at  Maynooth,  but 
I  forget.  Luckily  I've  no  time  to  think  about  these 
things  now;  for  when  I  was  a  young  fellow  there  were 
heaps  of  them  that  seemed  to  me  to  be  preposterous. 
Yet  I  heard  men  I  know  to  be  far  wiser  than  myself 
maintaining  them  to  be  above  question.  The  only  course 


THE  PRICE  OF  CONVALESCENCE         105 

for  a  good  Catholic  to  follow  is  to  believe  what  he  is 
told  by  those  above  him  without  question." 

"  How  do  you  mean  those  above  him  ?  "  Adam  queried 
anxiously. 

The  priest  answered  readily,  "I  mean  those  whom 
God  in  His  wisdom  has  put  over  him,  to  be  his  natural 
superiors." 

"  But  wouldn't  that  be  the  Castle  ?  "  Adam  asked. 

Father  Innocent  did  not  answer  so  readily  this  time; 
but  he  did  offer  an  answer,  "  I'm  afraid  it  would  in  a  sense 
be  the  Castle  in  some  ways,"  he  admitted;  "but  only 
so  long  as  the  Castle  told  you  to  believe  things  that  had 
the  approval  of  the  Pope."  He  corrected  himself,  "  I 
ought  to  have  said  that  even  the  Castle  wouldn't  dare  to 
do  anything  at  all  without  His  Holiness's  leave." 

"  How  does  it  get  it  ?  "  Adam  insisted ;  "  by  humbug- 
ging him  is  it  ?  " 

"  The  Pope  is  infallible,"  quoth  Father  Innocent,  with 
somewhat  ruffled  authority,  "  and  couldn't  be  humbugged 
if  he  wanted  to.  But,  of  course,  he  can't  be  always 
thinking  about  Ireland  which  is  quite  a  small  part  of 
his  dominion  and  perhaps  seems  a  poor  little  out  of  the 
way  place  that  hardly  matters  to  such  a  grand  monarch 
as  him :  the  grandest  in  the  world,  mind  you,  though 
he  was  once  only  a. poor  little  priest  like  myself,  only 
ever  so  much  better  and  wiser."  He  stopped  on  this 
side  track,  but  Adam  was  not  to  be  balked. 

"  But  sure,  knowing  everything,  he  must  know  the 
Castle's  down  on  all  Catholics  ?  "  he  argued. 

"You  may  be  sure  he  doesn't  know  that,"  Father 


106  ADAM  OF  DUBLIN 

Innocent  hastened  to  say,  "  aad  you're  wrong  in  thinking 
the  Castle's  down  on  all  Catholics.  There  are  Catholics 
earning  as  much  as  two  or  maybe  three  hundred  pounds 
a  year  under  the  Government." 

"  Is  there  now  really,  your  reverence  ?  "  asked  Adam, 
tremendously  impressed. 

"Indeed  there  are,"  said  Father  Innocent.  "Father 
Muldoon  could  tell  you  more  about  them  than  I.  He 
has  had  boys  under  him,  when  he  was  rector  at  Clon- 
gowes,  who  are  now  making  as  much  as  a  pound  every 
day  of  their  lives." 

"  I  wonder  could  I  ever  earn  the  like  of  that,"  cried 
Adam,  his  mouth  watering,  like  Ali  Baba  in  the  robbers' 
cave. 

Father  Innocent  looked  at  him  askance.  "  Would  you 
be  wanting  to  earn  it  from  the  Castle  ?  "  he  inquired. 

"  It's  a  lot  of  money,"  Adam  pleaded.  "  Couldn't  I 
do  a  lot  of  good  with  that  ?  " 

"  Think  of  all  the  harm  the  people  do  that  would  be 
giving  it  to  you,"  the  priest  rejoined  with  absent-minded 
indignation. 

"But  doesn't  the  Pope  tell  them  it's  all  right?"  was 
Adam's  instant  reply.  "  And  isn't  anything  wrong  all 
right  if  he  says  so?" 

"  Being  infallible,"  Father  Innocent  began,  "  he  couldn't 
say  that  wrong  was  right.  But  of  course  bad  men  might 
deceive  him  as  to  the  facts,  and  believing  something 
was  true  that  wasn't  true,  he  might  say  something  that 
would  be  perfectly  true  in  itself,  but  not  true  because 
he  had  been  told  what  wasn't  true  and  believed  it  before 


THE  PRICE  OF  CONVALESCENCE         107 

he  said  it,  for  of  course  though  he's  infallible  that  doesn't 
mean  that  he's  infallible  when  he's  being  misled  by 
bad  men,  as  we  may  all  be  misled  whether  fallible  or 
not  ..." 

"And  is  God  no  more  infallible  than  that?"  Adam 
asked,  with  ill-disguised  contempt. 

"  The  infallibility  of  the  Almighty  differs  from  the 
infallibility  of  the  Pope,  I  forget  how,"  Father  Innocent 
was  saying,  when  luckily  for  him  the  tram  grunted  be- 
neath them  and  came  to  a  stop.  "  Here  we  are  at  the 
Botanies,"  he  went  on,  "  so  ask  me  no  more  questions, 
my  dotey  boy.  I  tell  you  I'm  a  stupid  fellow  and  know 
no  more  than  yourself.  And  anyhow  we're  out  to  enjoy 
God's  beautiful  flowers  and  not  to  puzzle  our  heads  about 
things  that  have  no  real  concern  for  poor  people  like 
ourselves." 

Adam  was  only  too  willing  to  forget  questions  of 
ethics  and  politics  in  the  joy  of  bright  color  and  fragrant 
scent,  and  eagerly  clambered  down  from  the  tram  roof, 
notwithstanding  the  difficulties  presented  by  the  fact 
that  he  had  never  done  so  before,  even  on  his  naked  feet, 
and  his  boots  felt  as  stilts  might  to  the  more  luxurious. 
He  reached  the  ground  without  mishap  and  hastened  after 
his  mentor  through  the  gate  by  the  lodge,  where  false 
pride  inspired  him  to  inscribe  his  name  in  the  visitors' 
book  while  the  custodian  was  engaged  in  conversation 
with  Father  Innocent.  "  That  will  do  you  now,"  cried  the 
official  when  he  realized,  and  Adam  had  got  no  further 
than  the  publication  in  capital  letters  of  the  words,  ADAM 
BYRON  O'TOOLE.  ...  He  left  it  at  that,  inadequate 


io8  ADAM  OF  DUBLIN 

as  was  the  statement.  He  was  dejected  at  the  thought 
that  the  people  who  read  the  book  would  believe  his 
name  to  be  that  of  his  godfather,  though  he  had  no 
greater  satisfaction  in  that  of  Macfadden.  But  he  wished 
there  had  been  time  to  get  in  Wyndham,  which  had  a 
grand  sound,  and  above  all,  Innocent,  really  loved  both 
for  its  sound  and  the  connection  it  implied  with  his 
patron. 

This  day  which  had  promised  so  brightly  was  perhaps 
the  first  of  conscious  disillusion  in  Adam's  life.  The 
very  evergreens  at  the  entrance  depressed  him,  he  was 
overpowered  by  the  stifling  odor  of  tropical  vegetation, 
and  the  palm-houses  frightened  him  so  much  that  he 
clung  to  Father  Innocent's  hand  as  he  passed  through, 
dreading  to  see  the  fiery  eyes  of  diabolical  beasts  glare 
through  the  foliage.  He  had  never  yet  heard  of  ghouls 
by  that  name,  yet  they  were  ghoulish  forms,  he  fancied, 
lurking  amidst  the  odoriferous  foliage  around  him.  The 
heavy  scents  affected  him  much  more  than  the  occasionally 
brilliant  colors,  and  he  grew  not  sad  only,  but  desolate. 
These  plants  came  from  Africa — Africa,  where  his  uncle 
had  disappeared.  Africa,  where  perished  that  fated  Irish 
baronet,  Sir  David  Byron-Quinn. 

Father  Innocent  wondered  at  his  sullen  answers  when 
he  called  upon  him  to  praise  the  glory  of  the  Lord  as 
illustrated  in  flower  and  leaf  and  spreading  branch.  He 
felt  the  boy  trembling  as  though  he  had  brought  him  to  a 
Druid  grove,  where  hung  the  stench  of  the  sacrificed. 
He  was  turning  to  take  him  home,  when  he  felt  the  grip 
on  his  arm  grow  easier,  and  Adam  swung  loose,  a  smile 


THE  PRICE  OF  CONVALESCENCE         109 

% 

breaking  over  his  face.  Three  bars  of  well-marked  brazen 
music  filled  thei*  ears. 

"  Dear,  dear ! "  said  Father  Innocent,  "  I  near  forgot 
the  band.  You'd  like  to  hear  the  band,  dotey  ?  " 

Adam  owned  he  did  love  a  band,  and  the  priest's 
heart  lightened  to  see  him  stride  blithely  forward,  boots 
and  all,  towards  the  resounding  blare  of  trombone  and 
big  drum.  The  conductor  of  the  22nd  Princess  Sarah 
of  Cromwell's  Own  Lancers  was  giving  the  burgesses  of 
Dublin  the  music  they  deserved.  Adam,  who  savored 
the  passion  and  death  of  Mark  Antony  through  hearing 
"  When  Other  Lips  "  tootled  by  an  asthmatic  drunkard 
on  a  disintegrating  cornet,  pressed  the  pace  to  where  he 
glimpsed  the  redcoats  in  the  bandstand,  with  the  con- 
ductor's wand  and  white  gloves  beating  the  air  over  all. 
The  priest  was  less  excited,  though  the  music  pleased 
him  with  its  vaguely  familiar  lilt:  withal  that,  it  might 
equally  well  have  been  Purcell  or  Bach  or  Sullivan  or 
Strauss,  for  all  he  knew  about  it.  Abruptly  he  halted, 
hindering  Adam  too.  "  My  poor  father !  "  he  exclaimed. 

The  music  had  leaped  like  a  dog  out  of  water,  with 
a  shake  and  a  splash,  from  a  whining  sentimental  cadence 
to  the  smart  tap  of  a  martial  air,  and  Adam  was  sur- 
prised to  hear  Father  Innocent  repeat,  more  or  less  in 
connection  with  the  orchestral  accompaniment : — 

"  Yes,  let  me  like  a  soldier  fall 

Upon  some  open  plain, 
This  breast  expanding  to  the  ball, 
To  wash  out  every  stain." 


i  io  ADAM  OF  DUBLIN 

There  were  tears  in  his  eyes  as  he  took  Adam's  hand 
and  moved  on  towards  the  bandstand.  "  Well  I  remem- 
ber how  my  poor  father  used  to  sing  that  of  an  evening 
when  he  came  back  from  the  office,  and  now  he's  lying 
there."  He  waved  his  umbrella  vaguely  towards  a  wall 
bounding  the  promenade,  where  the  band  played  and 
gaily  dressed  groups  sauntered  to  and  fro.  Adam  was 
about  to  ask  how  he  could  be  over  there,  as  he  under- 
stood from  previous  reminiscences  of  the  priest  that  he 
was  long  since  in  Heaven,  but  Father  Innocent  did  not 
give  him  time,  for,  with  an  air  of  determined  cheerful- 
ness, he  went  on,  "  And  well  I  remember  my  uncle, 
Father  Dan,  my  mother's  brother  he  was,  saying,  com- 
ing back  from  the  funeral,  '  If  only  poor  Jim  had  ex- 
panded his  breast  to  the  air  instead  of  singing  about 
expanding  it  to  the  ball,  we  wouldn't  be  after  burying 
him  now.'  He  was  a  very  humorous  fellow  was  my 
uncle,  Father  Dan.  He  would  have  been  a  great  man 
if  he  hadn't  been  so  humorous.  Some  of  his  stories 
would  make  you  laugh  if  I  could  remember  them." 

Adam  was  not  in  the  mood  for  humorous  stories.  The 
music  grew  dull  and  distant  in  his  ears  as  he  envisaged 
the  blank  wall  that  bounded  the  promenade.  "Where 
did  you  say  your  father  is  now  ?  "  he  asked. 

The  priest  lifted  his  hat.  "  The  Lord  have  mercy  on 
him!  I  believe  he  is  in  heaven  with  Uncle  Dan,"  said 
he,  "but  his  poor  dust,  as  I  tell  you,  lies  over  there 
beyond  that  wall." 

"What's  over  there  beyond  that  wall?"  Adam  in- 
quired, with  a  frightened  air. 


THE  PRICE  OF  CONVALESCENCE         in 

"  Come  here  till  I  show  you,"  answered  the  priest,  and 
led  him  up  to  the  wall  and  lifted  him  in  his  arms  so 
that  he  just  peeped  over  the  top.  "  Glasnevina  Cemetery 
it  is,  where  we  laid  your  dear  godmother,  Miss  Robinson, 
to  rest  a  month  ago."  He  lifted  his  hat  to  add,  "  May 
she  rest  in  peace.  Amen." 

Adam  echoed  the  Amen,  shuddering  convulsively. 
Was  this  immense,  nasty-smelling  stone-mason's  yard, 
that  stretched  as  far  as  the  eye  could  reach,  in  a  terrible 
monotony  of  ugly  symbolism  which  turned  even  the 
primeval  figure  of  the  cross  into  a  vulgar  ornament 
for  a  rockery,  that  glorious  garden  that  fronted  the 
gates  of  heaven?  Could  poor  Miss  or  Mrs.  Robinson 
rest  peacefully  amidst  such  dismal  sights?  .  .  .  What 
if,  instead  of  getting  better,  he  had  died  and  been  laid 
here  to  lie  for  ever  and  ever  until  the  trump  of  Judg- 
ment Day? 

A  storm  of  questions  crowded  his  lips  to  ask  Father 
Innocent,  but  he  was  too  frightened  ...  too  frightened 
for  the  answers.  "  That  grand  round  tower  you  see, 
towering  over  all,  is  the  O'Connell  Monument,  where 
Daniel  O'Connell,  who  liberated  us  all,  lies  buried.  But 
his  heart's  at  Rome,  where  he  was  trying  to  go  when 
God  stopped  him  at  Genoa  to  call  him  to  Himself." 

No  generous  emotion  was  roused  in  Adam's  breast. 
He  only  wondered  why  ever  the  liberatro's  body  was 
brought  home  all  this  long  way,  to  be  laid  at  last  in 
this  slough  of  despond.  He  said  no  word  good  or  bad 
as  the  priest  lowered  him  down  and  led  him  back  towards 
the  bandstand.  He  had  lost  all  pleasure  in  the  music 


ii2  ADAM  OF  DUBLIN 

and  stared,  scandalized  at  the  callousness  and  frivolity  of 
the  redcoats,  whose  business  it  was  to  kill  people,  affront- 
ing with  their  trumpets  and  drums  the  impotence  of  them 
beyond  the  wall,  some  of  whom,  he  knew  for  certain,  they 
or  their  brothers  in  arms  had  slain.  He  tried  to  convey 
this  thought  to  Father  Innocent,  but  failed  and  said  no 
more. 

Pained  by  his  dogged  silence,  and  alarmed  lest  he 
should  have  tired  him,  the  little  priest  turned  their  steps 
homeward,  and  Adam  heaved  a  sigh  of  relief  as  they 
passed  the  ominous  evergreens  and  the  prison-like  gate- 
way, and  saw  lumbering  towards  them  that  friendly 
giant,  the  tram.  He  longed  to  get  back  for  what  time 
he  might  to  the  world  of  Mother  Goose,  where  none 
perished  but  the  wicked,  and  not  even  they  if  they  had 
the  good  luck  to  have  a  fairy  take  a  fancy  to  them. 
He  felt  as  he  thought  Moses  must  have  felt  when  he 
rejoined  his  cheerful,  if  naughty  companions  after  a 
prolonged  scolding  from  Jehovah.  Before  the  tram 
reached  Dunphy's  Corner  he  was  asleep;  and  Father 
Innocent  staggered  with  him  in  his  feeble  arms  down 
Eccles  Street  and  up  the  hospital  steps. 

"  Sure  he's  twice  the  man  he  was  when  he  came  here," 
he  said  to  the  hall  porter,  who  graciously  accepted  the 
statement  as  a  compliment  to  himself  and  answered  be- 
comingly : — 

"  We  do  our  best,  but  it's  little  thanks  we  get  for  it." 

Father  Innocent  sighed  and  turned  feet  that  ached 
worse  than  Adam's  had  ever  ached,  southwards  toward 
Marlborough  Street.  He  could  afford  no  more  trams 


THE  PRICE  OF  CONVALESCENCE        113 

to-day.  But  anyhow  Adam  had  enjoyed  the  band,  and 
had  seen  the  beautiful  garden  where  that  unfortunate 
saint,  Emily  Robinson,  and  his  own  good  father  and 
humorous  Uncle  Dan,  and  all  the  rest  of  the  faithful 
departed  were  buried.  What  a  good  thing  it  was  to 
be  lying  there  with  your  body  and  your  soul  above  with 
God! 

In  the  hospital  ward  his  little  friend  was  righting 
grimly  with  red  ghouls  to  save  another  Adam  that  was 
and  was  not  himself,  lost  in  the  black  heart  of  a  stifling 
dreamland,  Africa.  And  then,  as  the  little  priest  prayed 
for  him,  the  tumult  of  battle  died  away  and  peace  soothed 
the  tiny  brain.  Father  Innocent  could  do  that  for  others 
he  might  not  do  for  himself.  Even  through  the  night  his 
own  brain  burned  as  his  feet  had  burned  throughout  the 
day. 


CHAPTER  XII 
IN  DALKEY  TUNNEL 

THE  morning  after  his  outing  with  Father  Innocent 
Adam  awoke  in  abysmal  dread;  for  he  knew  that  his 
last  days  at  the  hospital  were  running  out,  and  not  even 
the  pride  of  his  new  boots  could  sustain  him  against  the 
thought  of  returning  to  Count  Alley.  Sister  found  him 
wanting  in  tenderness  for  his  mother.  She  strove  to 
waken  his  filial  feeling,  but  Adam  was  too  honest  to  affect 
what  he  had  not.  "  If  I  were  your  mother  it  would 
hurt  me  to  have  a  little  boy  like  you,"  she  said. 

He  looked  at  her  from  under  his  eyelids,  and  asked, 
"  Why  haven't  you  a  little  boy  of  any  sort  ?  " 

She  vouchsafed  no  reply,  probably  because  her  edu- 
cation led  her  to  believe  that  the  question  was  indelicate. 
Adam  then  remembered  too  late  that  Father  Innocent 
had  told  him  that  to  ask  any  question  bearing  on  the 
facts  of  life  was  immodest,  and  he  was  very  much 
distressed  to  think  that  sister  might  henceforth  regard 
him  not  merely  as  impudent  but  depraved.  Happily  she 
knew  far  less  about  the  matter  than  he.  It  faded  at  once 
from  her  mind,  and  to  his  relief,  she  kissed  him  as  usual 
when  she  had  heard  him  say  his  night  prayers. 

The  next  morning  came  a  joyful  surprise.  After  the 
doctor  had  sounded  him  with  more  than  ordinary  care, 
114 


IN  DALKEY  TUNNEL  115 

he  exchanged  a  roguish  glance  with  sister,  and  said,  "  I 
can  see  this  fellow's  a  great  humbug." 

"  I've  been  thinking  that  myself,"  quoth  sister. 

"  The  place  for  him  is  not  a  hospital  at  all  but  a  pirate 
ship  stopping  the  packet  in  Dublin  Bay,"  the  doctor 
declared. 

Adam  grinned  appreciatively.  "  Who's  humbugging 
now  ?  "  he  asked. 

"Not  me,"  the  doctor  protested.  "I'm  sure  your 
proper  place  is  on  the  rolling  main,  though  you  needn't 
stop  the  Royal  Mail  if  you're  too  good  a  Catholic  and 
devoted  to  the  throne.  But  anyhow  we've  arranged 
for  you  to  go  and  look  at  the  main  before  embarking 
on  it,  just  to  see  how  you  like  it,  at  the  end  of  this 
week.  .  .  .  Unless,  of  course,"  he  added  deferentially, 
"  unless,  of  course,  you'd  prefer  to  go  straight  back  to 
your  home  ?  " 

"  I'd  rather  be  a  pirate,"  said  Adam  promptly,  throwing 
all  scruple  to  the  winds,  though  in  cold  blood  he  would 
have  shrunk  from  the  idea.  Better  to  hang  in  chains 
in  Execution  Dock  than  repose  in  the  bosom  of  his 
family. 

So  he  found  himself  on  the  appointed  day  stepping 
into  a  vermilion  cab  before  the  hospital  steps.  It  al- 
ready contained  two  little  girls,  one  notably  thin,  and  an 
ample  nun.  Sister  kissed  him  for  the  last  time,  and  the 
horse  proceeded  to  rattle  the  party  in  the  most  alarm- 
ing fashion  down  bumpy  Eccles  Street,  across  the  Drum- 
condra  tram  lines,  past  St.  George's  Church,  into  Gardi- 
ner's Place  and  Mount  joy  Square,  and  down  the  hill  to 


u6  ADAM  OF  DUBLIN 

the  Custom  House,  and  over  Butt  Bridge,  past  the  Tara 
Street  Baths,  into  Brunswick  Street,  and  on  to  Westland 
Row  Station,  where  the  nun  inquired  anxiously  of  a 
porter  for  the  2.45  train  to  Bray. 

He  assured  her  that  the  two  o'clock  for  Kingstown 
was  but  just  gone,  so  she  was  in  good  time,  being  unen- 
cumbered with  luggage  save  for  a  paper  parcel  or  two, 
to  take  her  tickets  and  shepherd  her  party  up  the  steps 
to  the  departure  platform. 

They  had,  in  fact,  more  than  half  an  hour's  leisure  to 
admire  the  architecture  of  the  station,  and  the  triumphs 
of  art  over  nature  which  it  illustrated.  To  Adam,  who 
knew  it  only  by  reputation,  it  was  vastly  interesting. 
Apart  from  the  occasional  arrival  of  a  train  or  the  passage 
of  a  light  engine,  there  was  the  enduring  interest  of  the 
permanent  way,  and  above  all,  the  ba^  where,  thanks  to  a 
strike  down  the  line,  the  coaches  composing  the  Water- 
ford  Mail  were  lying,  when  they  ought  to  have  been 
one  hundred  and  seventeen  miles  away,  pulling  them- 
selves together  for  the  return  journey.  This  train  made 
up  of  corridor  carriages,  was  then  and  is  now  the  latest 
achievement  of  the  Dublin  and  South  Eastern  Railway 
Co.  in  the  direction  of  luxurious  transit.  Not  only  did 
Adam  demonstrate  to  his  companions  the  marvelous  con- 
struction of  this  apparatus  and  certain  of  its  advantages 
on  trips  of  such  long  duration,  but  he  pointed  out  that 
the  coach  at  one  end  of  the  train  was  numbered  nineteen, 
and  that  at  the  other  end  was  thirty-eight,  and  he  re- 
vealed to  them  the  remarkable  truth  that  twice  nineteen 
was  thirty-eight,  which  the  two  little  girls,  and  more  par- 


IN  DALKEY  TUNNEL  117 

ticularly  the  thinner  one,  agreed  was  worthy  to  be  noted, 
though  not  more  noteworthy  than  Adam's  mathematical 
skill,  knowledge  of  the  world,  and  pleasant  conversa- 
tion. They  signified  their  approval  to  the  nun  and  found 
she  shared  in  it;  for,  unlike  other  little  boys  who  had 
led  their  companions  into  mischief  by  playing  hide-and- 
seek  through  an  open  door  in  the  sacred  train,  he  had 
beguiled  the  tedium  of  the  party  by  purely  intellectual 
means. 

She  reported  to  her  superiors :  "  He  talks  like  a  book, 
he's  as  good  as  gold,  and  I  think  you  might  even  leave 
him  alone  with  most  girls." 

As  a*  matter  of  fact,  apart  from  passionate  dream- 
romances,  inspired  by  the  icons  in  the  Pro-Cathedral 
and  the  figures  of  pretty  ladies  in  shop  windows,  Adam's 
main  feeling  towards  the  opposite  sex  was  one  of  dread. 
His  godmother  he  had  loved  and  the  sister  who  nursed 
him;  but  he  thought  of  them  as  sexless  as  his  mother 
whom,  even  to  please  Father  Innocent,  he  could  not 
bring  himself  to  love.  The  girls  round  Count  Street 
despised  him  for  his  timidity  towards  themselves,  and 
took  advantage  of  it  to  tease  him  even  in  the  Pro- 
Cathedral  during  mass.  He  did  not  mind  this,  once 
the  time  came  for  him  to  go  to  Confession;  for  he 
learned  from  Father  Innocent  that  it  is  better  to  be 
tormented  by  little  girls  in  this  world  than  by  demons 
in  the  next. 

But  these  were  nice  little  girls  that  were  traveling 
with  him  down  to  Bray,  though  both  were  dressed  in 
a  manner  which  indicated  a  rank  in  society  above  his 


ii8  ADAM  OF  DUBLIN 

own,  they  were  as  respectful  as  the  ladies  who  walked 
with  Dante.  One  of  them  was  called  Anastatia  Fallen. 
She  was  about  his  own  age,  but  stunted,  and  talked 
through  her  nose,  yet  he  thought  her  the  prettier  of 
the  two ;  for  she  had  a  lovely  pink  complexion  and  curly 
fair  hair,  adorned  with  ribbons  of  more  than  one  color. 
The  other  was  older  than  he  by  perhaps  two  years  or 
more,  and  taller,  he  feared  much  taller.  She  was  very  slim, 
and  her  legs,  of  which  he  saw  a  good  deal,  markedly 
thinner  even  than  his  own.  She  was  not  so  gaily  dressed 
as  Miss  Fallon,  being  in  a  sort  of  mourning  that  had  the 
air  of  permanence,  nor  had  she  her  obvious  attractions; 
she  was  very  dark,  with  beetling  brows  and  thick  eye- 
lashes over  greeny  brown  eyes,  and  long  black  hair  like 
a  hearse  horse's  tail,  and  a  sallow  skin.  She  might  have 
atracted  him  had  they  been  alone,  but  compared  with 
Miss  Fallon,  she  seemed  to  him  elderly  and  plain.  Her 
name,  he  heard  with  little  interest,  was  Caroline 
Brady. 

At  last  the  2.45  rumbled  in  from  over  the  river  and 
ten  minutes  packed  with  excitement  followed  as  they 
clutched  their  parcels  and  scrambled  for  places  in  a  third- 
class  compartment.  Then  its  engine  snorting  fierily 
against  the  roof,  it  started  laboriously  to  rumble  out 
again,  gathering  speed  as  it  crashed  over  ingenious  catch- 
points,  past  docks  and  canals  and  gasometers,  through 
lowly  Ringsend  and  lordly  Lansdowne  Road,  and  com- 
fortable Sidney  Parade,  and  abandoned  Merrion,  and 
rushed  headlong  (to  judge  by  the  noise  it  made)  round 
the  skirts  of  Dublin  Bay  to  Blackrock.  Adam  had  never 


IN  DALKEY  TUNNEL  119 

beheld  the  sea,  and  at  the  first  doubtful  glimpse — for 
the  carriage  was  full  and  he  sat  in  the  middle  with  his 
back  to  the  engine,  he  took  the  hill  of  Howth  for  some 
misty  and  terrible  monster  of  the  deep.  It  seemed  odd 
that  no  one  noticed  the  apparition  but  himself.  He 
feared  he  might  be  suspected  of  cowardice  if  he  made  a 
fuss  about  it,  so,  praying  that  the  horrific  beast  might 
be  left  behind  before  they  reached  Bray,  he  said  nothing, 
but  turned  his  eyes  landward  where  they  were  comforted 
by  the  sight  of  the  familiar  Kingstown  tram  bustling 
along  not  far  from  the  train  and  nearly  as  fast. 

At  Blackrock  some  one  got  out  and  he  was  able  to 
stretch  his  neck  far  enough  to  see,  ere  they  ran  into 
Kingstown,  that  Howth  Head  was  not  a  leviathan  but 
a  promontory.  Kingstown,  he  could  see,  was  a  very 
important  place,  there  was  more  bustle  and  noise  there 
than  at  Blackrock,  and  almost  as  much  as  at  Westland 
Row,  and  an  engine  on  another  line  taking  water,  and 
a  dull  gray  building  with  a  mast  in  the  garden  and  a 
white  flag  with  a  red  cross  on  it  or  some  other  foreign 
device,  also  there  were  glimpses  of  steamers  and  of 
sailing  ships  with  their  noses  cocked  over  the  wall  to 
look  at  you,  and  such  other  things  as  you  might  see  in 
and  about  the  Liffey,  as  you  gazed  down  it  from  Butt 
Bridge,  and  the  same  smell  of  tarry  rope  and  bilge  water, 
only  with  a  fresh  sea  smell  mixed  up  with  it.  He  re- 
called that  Kingstown  was  the  port  from  which  his  semi- 
mythical  uncle  sailed  to  Africa.  Perhaps  also  Sir  David 
Byron-Quinn  ? 

Four  people  got  out  and  only  one  got  in,  so  the  little 


120  ADAM  OF  DUBLIN 

party  could  sit  together  and  take  their  ease,  and  Adam 
was  now  next  the  corner  seat  where  sat  Miss  Fallon. 
When  the  train  jolted  over  the  pier  junction  switch 
in  the  cutting,  he  put  his  hand  on  her  knee  to  steady 
himself,  and  it  felt  very  pleasant,  but  he  knew  that  he 
ought  not  to  find  it  so,  and  edged  away  from  her,  though 
not  far.  His  face  was  still  flushed  when  they  reached 
the  full  light  of  day  at  Sandy  Cove,  and  he  had  a  feeling 
that  Miss  Brady  looked  at  him  as  if  she  knew  what  he 
was  trying  not  to  think  of,  and  might  tell  their  cus- 
todian if  he  were  so  unfortunate  as  to  forget  himself 
again.  But  Miss  Fallon  was  eating  sweets  and  taking 
no  notice  of  him  or  any  one  else,  so  perhaps  he  had  really 
been  only  dreaming  in  that  queer  way  he  had,  par- 
ticularly since  he  had  been  in  hospital. 

Leaving  Sandy  Cove,  he  perceived  that  they  were  now 
approaching  the  heart  of  the  country ;  there  was  no  more 
sign  of  a  tram,  the  cuttings  were  no  longer  lined  with 
masonry  but  sloping  grass,  gemmed  with  wild  flowers 
and  the  air  had  a  quality  quite  unknown  to  him.  At 
Glenageary  two  more  passengers  got  out,  and  at  Dalkey 
they  were  left  in  sole  possession  of  the  compartment. 

Adam  rose  and  stretched  his  legs.  These  railway 
journeys,  however  full  of  promise  of  the  most  enthralling 
adventure,  were  in  some  ways  more  trying  than  he  had 
foreseen.  He  was  glad  to  be  able  to  move  about  and 
take  a  peep  at  the  great  world  flying  past.  How  quiet 
these  girls  were :  girls  never  took  an  interest  in  anything. 
Yet  he  was  liking  girls  very  much  to-day,  particularly 
his  traveling  companions,  particularly  Miss  Fallon.  He 


IN  DALKEY  TUNNEL  121 

would  sit  right  away  from  Miss  Fallen  that  he  might  be 
able  to  tell  Father  Innocent  that  he  really  was  a  good 
boy  and  grateful  to  God  for  sending  him  first  to  that 
dear  hospital  and  afterwards  to  Bray;  that  would  be 
almost  nicer,  perhaps,  if  only  there  were  such  a  kind 
lady  as  sister  there.  The  nun  with  them  now  was  all 
right,  as  nuns  went,  but  she  was  not  like  sister  and  could 
not  be  if  she  tried.  He  would  never  want  to  kiss  her  as 
he  kissed  sister.  He  would  hardly  want  to  kiss  her  at  all. 
He  would  rather  kiss  ...  he  must  try  not  to  think  of 
that,  though  what  harm  was  there  in  it  after  all?  .  .  . 
Sister  would  never  do  anything  wrong,  yet  she  had 
kissed  him  heaps  of  times  ...  he  thought  she  was 
going  to  cover  him  with  kisses  sometimes.  .  .  .  But  he 
thought  wrong,  for  she  never  did.  All  this  he  thought  as 
he  tottered  to  the  open  window  at  the  far  side  of  the  car- 
riage. He  looked  out  just  in  time  to  see  that  the  train 
was  approaching  a  mountain.  Suddenly  the  engine  whis- 
tled and  they  were  whirled  into  darkness. 

For  a  moment  Adam  was  terrified!  He  felt  some- 
thing creeping  towards  him  while  he  thought  the  boards 
below  him  threatened  to  split  beneath  his  feet.  The  thing 
near  him  was  human,  female,  Miss  Fallon,  who  had  come 
to  him  for  protection.  She  had  offered  him  none  of  her 
sweets,  but  never  mind.  She  was  close  behind  him,  he  put 
out  a  hand  to  steady  her  as  he  had  used  her  knee  a  little 
while  since  to  support  himself.  The  hand  slipped  round 
her  body,  she  was  not  so  plump  as  he  had  thought.  The 
carriage  was  rocking  wildly  now,  they  both  rocked  to 
and  fro  with  it,  the  wheels  ground  and  growled  fero- 


122  ADAM  OF  DUBLIN 

ciously  beneath  their  feet,  no  wonder  if  she  was  fright- 
ened, he  must  make  her  feel  that  he  could  keep  her 
safe.  She  could  not  hear  him  speak,  though  he  put  his 
head  forward  where  he  thought  her  ear  should  be.  He 
found  it  close  to  her  body,  kissing  it.  He  had  not  meant 
to  do  this,  he  hoped  she  had  not  felt  anything,  he  tried  to 
find  her  ear  to  explain  when  her  lips  suddenly  descended 
from  quite  a  long  way  and  rested  for  an  ecstatic  instant 
upon  his.  .  .  .  There  was  a  blaze  of  dazzling  light.  The 
nun,  screening  her  eyes,  was  gazing  in  rapt  admiration 
on  the  sea  between  her  and  Bray  Head,  Miss  Fallon  was 
sitting  opposite  her  gnawing  chocolate,  and  beside  Adam 
stood  Miss  Brady,  with  rather  a  pretty  color  mantling 
her  sallowness  as  she  stared  out  of  the  window  that 
rushed  past  the  inland  rocks. 

"  Come  and  look  at  Killiney  Bay,"  said  the  nun,  calling 
them  over  without  her  eyes  quitting  the  cherished  view. 
"  Isn't  it  lovely  ?  "  .  .  .  The  tension  was  broken.  Adam 
said  it  was  the  loveliest  thing  he  had  ever  seen,  which 
was  quite  true.  And  Miss  Brady  in  a  subdued  voice 
agreed  with  him.  Miss  Fallon  said  nothing,  her  mouth 
being  full  of  chocolate. 

Then  followed  another  station  that  seemed  almost  to 
rise  from  the  sea  itself,  but  was  not  very  busy;  and 
then  the  train,  after  a  serious  conversation  between  the 
engine-driver  and  the  station-master,  who  was  perhaps 
reproving  him  for  coming  so  fast  down  the  gradient 
from  Dalkey,  puffed  out  mighty  slowly  and  cautiously 
on  the  single  track  which  carried  them  past  derelict  Bally- 
brack  and  the  Martello  tower,  and  another  set  of  bumping 


IN  DALKEY  TUNNEL  123 

points,  and  the  wreckage  of  prehistoric  colliers  and  a 
level  crossing  into  the  sought-for  haven  of  Bray. 

And  then  there  was  the  culminating  excitement  of 
collecting  the  paper  parcels  for  the  last  time,  and  Adam 
clambering  up  on  the  seat  to  get  the  nun's  umbrella  and 
very  nearly  succeeding  in  doing  so,  and  the  tumbling  off 
the  seat  into  the  arms  of  Miss  Brady,  and  being  helped 
by  her  out  of  the  train,  but  disengaging  her  hand  to 
walk  across  the  platform  for  himself  into  the  vehicle  that 
stood  waiting  for  them  there,  not  unlike  a  cab  but  called 
a  "  brome,"  which  carried  them  across  the  very  rails  they 
had  traveled  over  in  the  train,  and  bowled  them  gaily 
along  the  sea  front  (called  the  esplanade,  which  gave 
it  the  delightful  effect  of  being  in  an  entirely  foreign 
country  like  Africa,  only  handier  to  get  at),  where  a 
band  in  dark  green  uniforms  was  playing  "  Patrick's  Day 
in  the  Morning  "  to  an  assembly  even  more  fashionable, 
to  judge  from  its  brilliant  costumes,  than  that  which  he 
had  seen  taking  their  lugubrious  and  deceitful  pleasure 
in  the  Botanical  Gardens.  And  behind  all  this  was  the 
magnificent  background  of  the  open  sea,  stretching  away 
to  Africa  and  America,  and  he  could  not  at  the  moment 
remember  where  else.  And  on  it  were  the  white  sails  of 
ships,  apparently  motionless  like  the  ships  in  the  picture 
shops,  going  nowhere  with  spreading  sail  to  catch  the 
windless  air.  How  lovely  it  all  was!  more  like  heaven 
than,  he  thought,  anything  on  earth  could  possibly  be. 

There  he  sat  in  the  lordly  equipage,  with  his  back  to 
the  gallant  horse,  Miss  Fallen  beside  him,  sweet-bag  in 
hand  and  Miss  Brady's  knees  deliciously  tickling  his  and 


124  ADAM  OF  DUBLIN 

adding  to  the  heavenliness  of  it  all ;  while,  from  time 
to  time,  the  nun  smiled  upon  him  benignly  as  though 
to  thank  him  for  being  such  a  good  little  boy. 

And  he  smiled  back  a  little  wanly;  for,  after  all,  he 
had  no  confidence  in  his  own  virtue,  and  this  heaven  was 
the  pagan  heaven  of  his  dreams  and  not  the  tedious 
place  advertised  in  the  holy  Catechism.  But  he  was 
going  to  be  exquisitely  happy  in  it ;  for,  whatever  it 
was,  it  transcended  the  promise  of  Mother  Goose's  Fairy 
Tales.  The  Princess  Badroul  Badour  was  a  pale  shade 
compared  with  either  Anastatia  Fallon  or  Caroline  Brady, 
and  when  he  found  himself  tucked  in  bed,  the  dark  of  the 
night  served  but  to  prolong  to  the  infinite  extension  of 
dreamland  the  mystical  light  in  darkness  of  Dalkey 
Tunnel. 


CHAPTER  XIII 
THE  RETURN  OF  THE  PRODIGAL 

WHEN  Adam  again  took  observation  of  his  surroundings 
he  found  that  he  was  one  of  four  boys  in  a  dormitory 
at  Saint  Morwenna's  Convalescent  Home,  conducted  by 
the  religious  of  that  charitable  order.  The  other  three 
boys,  though  they  had  the  advantage  of  him  in  age 
and  social  position,  proved  to  be  his  inferiors  in  in- 
telligence, and  of  lower  vitality,  so  he  held  his  own 
against  them,  though  experience  taught  him  to  baffle  their 
researches  into  his  birth  and  lineage.  Even  those  in 
authority  knew  little  about  him  beyond  that  he  was  a 
protege  of  a  well-known  physician,  and  that  the  nun 
who  brought  him  down  from  Dublin  expatiated  on  his 
good  behavior,  a  judgment  borne  out  by  every  evidence; 
for  he  gave  less  trouble  than  any  equally  lively  inmate 
of  the  home.  This  held  good  not  only  of  his  conduct 
but  of  his  health,  which  the  sea  winds  blew  to  a  rich 
glow,  and  he  visjbly  waxed  in  height  and  girth.  Alto- 
gether it  was  a  pleasure  to  have  a  boy  like  Adam,  who 
was  a  credit  in  every  way  and  even  willing  to  be 
clean. 

To  Adam  the  convalescent  home,  with  its  outlook  on 
the  sea  and  its  beeswaxed  rooms  full  of  sunshine  and 
fresh  air,  was  a  terrestrial  paradise.     For  the  joy  of 
125 


126  ADAM  OF  DUBLIN 

dwelling  there  he  faced  without  demur  the  cruel  ordeal 
of  walking  into  the  sea  until  it  covered  his  knees  and 
then  dropping  down  in  it  backwards  (with  all  its  dread 
association  with  his  escape  from  drowning  in  Fitzwilliam 
Square),  until  it  covered  his  head  and  the  salt  water 
bubbled  in  his  nose  and  mouth,  forcing  a  passage  to  his 
inmost  parts.  Three  days  later  he  voluntarily  jumped 
off  the  springboard  into  four  feet  of  turning  tide  and 
was  rescued  with  difficulty,  and  alternately  smacked  and 
kissed  by  the  bathing  woman,  a  lady  of  kind  heart,  but, 
he  regretfully  observed,  not  young  for  her  age,  nor  even, 
showing  traces  of  past  beauty.  Within  a  week  from 
that  he  could  swim  several  strokes,  if  only  to  escape  her 
caresses.  Now  that  he  had  regular  meals  to  support 
his  courage,  he  was,  as  his  poor  godmother  had  boasted, 
as  brave  as  a  lion:  the  lion  of  unembroidered  fact,  be 
it  understood,  not  that  of  fiction,  which  is  an  unnatural 
beast. 

Even  paradise,  however,  he  found  wanting  in  perhaps 
the  greatest  joy  he  had  been  led  to  look  for  in  it.  The 
morning  of  the  first  day,  he  saw  Caroline  Brady  and 
Anastatia  Fallon  only  at  a  distance.  They  smiled  and 
nodded  to  him,  and  he  fancied  Caroline  was  wishful  to 
speak;  but  to  speak  she  had  no  chance.  She  was  hold- 
ing herself  badly  this  morning,  as  though  too  tall  for 
her  strength,  and  was  hollow-eyed  and  her  sallowness 
was  palely  green.  Anastatia  was  certainly  the  prettier  of 
the  two :  there  were  only  five  of  the  girls  he  found  pret- 
tier than  Anastatia.  He  got  the  chance  to  talk  to  one, 
but  timidity  or  unwillingness  to  lose  his  reputation,  or 


THE  RETURN  OF  THE  PRODIGAL       127 

a  feeling  that  he  ought  to  be  faithful  to  Anastatia  and 
Caroline,  nipped  desire  in  the  bud.  The  next  day  he 
saw  Anastatia  without  Caroline,  and,  having  some  mo- 
ments' talk  with  her  on  the  beach  (for  he  was  already 
known  to  be  trustworthy),  he  learned  that  Caroline  was 
ill.  He  wished  to  know  more,  but  Miss  Fallon  said 
nothing  of  interest  beyond  that  her  own  father  was  sole 
proprietor  of  a  tobacconist's  shop  in  Clarendon  Street, 
and  she  had  no  notion  where  Miss  Brady  came  from 
but  that  her  father  was  not  his  own  master,  for  Caroline 
had  to  get  up  in  the  morning  to  help  her  mother  to  get 
his  breakfast  for  him,  as  he  had  to  be  somewhere  long 
before  Miss  Fallen's  father  found  it  necessary  to  inquire 
into  the  doings  of  the  tobacco  world.  She  guessed  Miss 
Brady's  age  at  seventeen  (she  had  such  grown-up  ways), 
and  supposed  Adam  himself  to  be  twelve  or  more,  he 
knew  so  much.  This  was  flattering,  but  Adam,  despite 
her  generous  coloring,  perceived  that  she  was  greedy; 
for,  even  now,  with  all  her  friendliness,  she  offered  him 
none  of  the  chocolate  she  was  for  ever  eating.  When 
he  turned  to  leave  her  she  followed  him,  but  was  called 
back  by  a  nun,  whom  he  heard  gustily  reproaching  her 
.as  a  "bold,  forward  child."  He  thought  her  nothing 
of  the  kind,  but  merely  dull ;  realizing  now  that  it  was  only 
Caroline  that  had  thrilled  him  and  not  the  pair  of  them 
as  he  had  at  first  supposed. 

He  was  sorry  that  Caroline  was  ill,  but  now  that  she 
was  no  longer  to  be  seen  in  this  great  healthy  world  of 
sunlit  greensward,  weedy  rock,  and  sand,  and  tumbling 
sea,  his  interest  in  her  waned,  until,  towards  the  end  of 


128  ADAM  OF  DUBLIN 

his  term  at  Bray,  her  image  sprang  upon  him  in  the 
night  and  haunted  him  till  dawn. 

And  then  at  last  came  doomsday,  appropriately  dark 
and  cloudy,  with  spouting  of  cold  rain,  when  he  was 
declared  to  be  sound  and  whole  and  fit  in  every  way 
to  be  handed  over  for  sacrifice  on  the  parental  altar 
in  the  foul  alley  off  Count  Street.  He  bade  farewell 
to  his  partners  in  the  dormitory  with  an  emotion  that 
surprised  them,  for  they  had  accounted  him,  despite  his 
amiability,  as  aloof  and  priggish ;  and  seeing  Miss  Fallen, 
he  ran  up  to  her  and  incontinently  kissed  her.  She 
was  on  the  point  of  giving  him  a  crack  off  her  choco- 
late then,  had  he  not  confused  her  mind  by  saying, 
"  You'll  give  my  love  to  Caroline  Brady,  won't 
you?" 

Whereupon  she  replied,  "  Carrie's  gone  long  ago. 
They  couldn't  keep  her,  she  was  so  bad.  She's  maybe 
dead  by  this,"  and  from  force  of  habit  she  put  the 
chocolate  intended  for  Adam  in  her  own  mouth.  There 
was  no  "  brome  "  to-day  to  beguile  Adam's  melancholy. 
He  was  marched  to  the  station  in  company  of  another 
boy  under  a  big  umbrella,  which  a  nun  he  did  not 
know  held  over  them  both.  When  they  turned  their 
backs  to  the  esplanade,  at  the  railway  crossing  by  the 
station,  all  hope  seemed  left  behind.  The  station  itself 
was  wet  and  dismal,  even  their  engine  bumbled  in  with 
a  hang-dog  air,  and  rain  trickled  off  the  carriage  roofs 
as  though  they  mourned  the  fate  that  recalled  them  to 
Dublin. 

Tears  of  self-pity  welled  in  Adam's  eyes  as  they  puffed 


THE  RETURN  OF  THE  PRODIGAL       129 

out  from  beside  the  hoarding  that  advised  him  that  he 
ought  to  carry  his  custom  to  Clery's,  caught  a  last 
glimpse  of  the  hotels  about  the  level  crossing,  and  jolted 
on  past  the  backs  of  houses,  over  a  bridge,  and  so  on 
by  the  lost  argosies  and,  leaping  the  mouth  of  a  tiny 
stream  he  had  not  noticed  on  the  downward  trip,  on  to 
the  single  track  to  Killiney.  He  had  no  heart  to  look 
farther  on  the  beloved  sea  he  was  leaving  now,  he  sup- 
posed, for  ever,  so  he  sat  with  downcast  eyes,  his  right 
hand  on  his  ear  and  the  elbow  resting  on  the  window 
ledge.  Thus  conveyed  to  his  brain,  the  thudding  of 
the  flatted  wheels  beneath  his  feet  beat  out  a  melody 
not  to  be  distinguished  by  him  from  St.  Patrick's  Day, 
as  he  had  heard  it  that  first  unforgettable  hour  bowling 
along  the  sea  front  at  Bray.  Life,  though  sad,  remained 
of  interest,  almost  in  spite  of  himself. 

The  train  stopped:  Killiney.  The  engine  drew  a  long 
breath  and  shook  itself  before  starting  again  to  climb 
up  to  Dalkey  Tunnel.  Then  amidst  encouraging  shouts 
of  "  right  away  "  and  whistles  great  and  small,  the  stern 
ascent  began.  Adam's  eyes  were  carried  seaward  by  a 
trail  of  smoke  that  ran  its  curly  way,  from  the  little 
headland  by  Sorrento  away  to  the  very  circle  bounding 
the  waters,  for  the  clouds  had  blown  away  for  a  moment 
and  the  east  was  blue.  He  found  it  pleasant  to  tell  him- 
self that  this  smoke  was  from  his  friend  the  Bristol 
boat,  the  only  ship  that  had  a  personality  for  him,  start- 
ing on  that  wondrous  voyage  he  would  so  love  to 
make.  .  .  .  And  even  as  he  fancied  himself  Sindbad  the 
Sailor,  avid  only  for  maritime  adventure,  he  found  him- 


I3o  ADAM  OF  DUBLIN 

self  in  the  darkness  of  Dalkey  Tunnel,  kissing  the  pas- 
sionate ghost  of  Caroline  Brady. 

Emerging  to  daylight,  the  nun,  not  altogether  unob- 
servant, wondered  why  he  had  lost  his  color,  and  asked 
if  he  were  frightened  by  the  tunnel.  He  assured  her  he 
was  not,  but,  dreading  a  collapse,  she  watched  him  closely.  < 
It  struck  her  that  he  was  different  from  any  other  boy 
of  whom  she  had  found  herself  in  charge,  but  failed  to 
tell  herself  wherein  the  oddity  lay.  Gradually  his  color 
returned  and  when  they  reached  Westland  Row,  she  felt 
justified  in  allowing  him  to  travel  on  alone  to  Tara  Street, 
while  she  brought  the  other  boy  to  his  home  on  the  south 
side. 

Even  the  increasing  volume  of  the  railway  traffic  as 
they  approached  the  metropolis  could  not  cheer  Adam's 
foundered  spirits  and,  though  he  had  often  dreamed  of 
the  day  when  he  might  hope  to  look  down  on  Westland 
Row  and  Brunswick  Street  from  the  railway  bridges ;  to- 
day, he  forgot  to  attempt  to  do  so.  At  Tara  Street  he 
climbed  slowly  out  of  the  carriage  and  descended  among 
the  pillars  supporting  the  soul-devastating  edifice,  as  if 
descending  into  his  sepulcher. 

How  gray,  how  greasy,  how  joylessly  noisy  the  streets 
were !  How  ugly  Butt  Bridge !  How  heavy  with  dis- 
illusion the  railway  viaduct !  How  bleak  the  coloring 
of  the  Custom  House!  And  how  disappointing  of  the 
Bristol  boat  to  be  lying  there  in  front  of  it,  when  his  one 
agreeable  thought  that  day,  save  the  mad,  bad  thought 
of  Caroline  in  the  tunnel,  had  sailed  in  her  out  across  the 
bay  to  the  only  certain  glory  of  the  unknown.  Even  that 


THE  RETURN  OF  THE  PRODIGAL       131 

Garden  of  Eden  called  Bray  had  serpents  lurking  in  its 
undergrowth.  Caroline  Brady  had  been  expelled  for 
being  too  ill,  and  he  for  being  too  well.  And  worse  was 
their  fate  than  the  first  Adam's  and  his  Eve's ;  for  they 
had  not  known  the  full  savor  of  any  fault,  nor  had  they 
now  the  solace  of  each  other's  company. 

Company?  .  .  .  Would  he  ever  have  the  mysterious 
Caroline's  again?  If  she  were  in  her  grave  would  he 
willingly  join  her  there?  .  .  .  What  sort  of  a  thing  was 
a  grave  when  you  looked  inside  it?  Would  it  matter 
what  it  was  like  if  only  she  were  there  with  him  too  ?  .  .  . 
Surely  not,  nothing  could  matter  at  all,  he  thought,  if 
only  he  could  be  with  Caroline  Brady.  ...  He  turned 
aside  at  the  north  end  of  Butt  Bridge  to  contemplate 
the  waters  that  drowned  Fan  Tweedy.  ...  If  only  they 
had  been  rising,  with  the  tide  fresh  and  green  from  the 
sea!  But  the  current  was  running  out,  muddy  as  the 
gutters  of  Marlborough  Street.  .  .  . 

Besides  even  in  death  with  all  its  risks,  he  could  not 
count  on  finding  Caroline  again  .  .  .  perhaps  she  was 
still  alive.  She  was  very  ill,  said  that  other  girl,  but 
that  did  not  say  she  was  dead.  He  had  been  very  ill 
a  few  weeks  ago,  yet  here  he  was  now,  feeling  more 
alive  then  he  had  ever  felt  before.  On  the  other  hand, 
there  was  Miss  or  Mrs.  Robinson.  Father  Innocent 
had  spoken  of  her  illness  much  as  Anastatia  Fallon 
had  spoken  of  Caroline  Brady's,  and  she  had  died  right 
enough  and  been  buried  in  that  awful  place  beyond 
the  walls  at  the  Botanies.  Adam  shuddered  at  the 
thought  of  Caroline  lying  there,  of  lying  there  himself, 


132  ADAM  OF  DUBLIN 

even  beside  her;  better  to  be  carried  on  these  muddy 
waters  out  to  sea.  But  if  the  sea  held  not  Caroline, 
what  then?  ...  It  all  seemed  hopeless,  except  that 
he  felt  himself  alive  and  well,  so  very  much  alive,  so 
very  well.  On  the  whole  he  wanted  to  be  alive,  but 
he  did  not  want  to  be  well,  he  wanted  to  be  ill,  and 
enjoy  again  the  past  eight  weeks,  the  only  weeks  of  his 
life  that  had  been  worth  living. 

A  sickening  crash  against  the  right  side  of  his  head 
wakened  him  from  his  reverie.  His  father  towered 
above  him,  an  empty  pipe  in  his  mouth ;  very  drunk 
was  he  and  livid  with  rage.  "  Is  this  where  I  find  you, 
my  fine  fellow  ?  "  he  roared,  "  when  you  ought  to  be  off 
out  working  for  your  living.  Was  it  to  idle  I  bred  you, 
was  it?"  .  .  . 

A  blow  on  the  left  cheek  followed.  Adam  made  a 
frantic  plunge  for  freedom  at  any  price,  towards  the 
water's  edge;  but  a  third  blow  stopped  him,  and  as 
he  yet  reeled  under  it,  a  fourth  drove  him  back  towards 
Count  Street  as  sheep  are  driven  towards  the  North 
Circular  Road. 

So  was  Adam  welcomed  home. 


CHAPTER  XIV 

MR.  MAcFADDEN  IS  DISPLEASED  BY  HIS 
FAMILY  AND  THE  ABBEY  THEATER 

ACCORDING  to  our  lights,  we  do  not  see  it  to  be  the 
province  of  the  artist  to  paint  in  detail  the  merely  sordid. 
It  is  his  duty  to  realize  the  worst  for  himself,  but  he  must 
be  careful  how  he  allows  that  dread  knowledge  to  color 
his  narrative,  lest  he  suffer  his  reader  to  see  the  broad 
ocean  of  life  as  a  mere  whirlpool  of  despair.  If  his 
experience  lead  him  so  to  regard  it,  let  him  cherish  the 
logic  of  silence,  and  refrain  from  adding  another  stone 
to  the  monument  of  nothingness.  He  that  despairs  is 
logically  dead :  if  he  live,  his  life  is  a  farce  and  the  ex- 
pression of  his  opinions  an  impertinence. 

It  is  unnecessary  to  pursue  Adam  to  the  family  rat- 
hole  off  Count  Street,  where  his  good  mother  awaited 
him,  to  point  with  her  tongue  the  moral  lesson  crudely 
outlined  by  his  father's  fists.  On  one  excuse  or  another, 
he  had  idled  two  months  of  the  best  season  of  the  year 
and  lived  on  the  fat  of  the  land;  while  his  father's 
affairs  had  been  going  from  bad  to  worse,  so  that  he 
might  be  sitting  drinking  porter  all  day  for  all  the 
tailoring  he  had  to  do.  To  prove  that  this  was  no 
overstatement  of  the  possibilities  of  the  case,  he  did 
so  most  days.  Consequently  of  his  stock-in-trade  barely 
i33 


134  ADAM  OF  DUBLIN 

a  pair  of  shears  remained  impawned  or  unclaimed  by 
creditors.  It  was  now  for  Adam  promptly  to  set  to 
work,  to  restore  the  house  his  father  was  pulling  about 
their  ears. 

Whether  Mrs.  Macfadden  really  believed  a  child  of 
Adam's  age  could  perform  this  miracle  was  not  definitely 
stated  by  her,  but  she  was  wroth  with  him  for  leaving 
her  so  long  alone  with  her  husband,  who  now  vented 
on  her  all  the  cruelty  and  suspicion  the  main  burden 
of  which  had  for  some  years  been  borne  by  her  son. 
She  could  no  longer  come  and  go  without  question, 
every  movement  was  watched.  She  could  not  count  even 
on  drunkenness  keeping  him  quiet,  for  alcohol  was  dis- 
tilled in  Malachy's  liver  less  into  intoxication  for  his 
limbs  than  rage  for  his  heart.  One  night  he  caught  her 
coming  out  of  a  public-house:  forbidden  ground  for 
her  unless  in  his  company  or  on  his  errands.  A  terrible 
scene  followed,  so  bad  that  she  would  have  left  him  alto- 
gether but  for  sheer  laziness  and  a  superstitious  dread 
of  the  consequences.  It  was  better  to  live  with  Mac- 
fadden than  to  be  killed  by  him,  for  he  was  one  of  those 
proud  men  who  would  rather  be  hanged  for  killing  their 
wives  than  acknowledge  the  precedence  of  another  in 
their  wives'  affections. 

In  this  particular  Mr.  Macfadden  justly  claimed  all 
the  finest  feelings  of  a  gentleman ;  but  his  wife,  though 
she  bowed  to  his  will,  deeming  death  the  worst  of  all 
evils,  despised  the  man  for  his  foolishness  in  expecting 
her  to  find  him  money  for  drink  when  she  dared  not 
go  where  she  might  earn  it.  He  had  come  to  persuade 


MR.  MACFADDEN  IS  DISPLEASED        135 

himself  that  it  was  Adam  who  of  late  had  made  the 
money  that  kept  them;  at  all  events  he  refused  to  see 
where  else  it  came  from.  It  saved  her  some  degree  of 
persecution  to  agree  that  things  would  be  all  right  when 
Adam  was  back  at  work  again. 

So  once  again  Adam  went  selling  papers  outside  the 
Gresham  Hotel,  and,  with  his  decenter  appearance  and 
greater  knowledge  of  life,  drove  a  better  trade  than  any 
of  the  other  boys,  honest  or  otherwise;  and  drove  it 
too,  without  exciting  their  ill  will;  for  any  special  wind- 
falls he  shared  with  his  friends  Patsy  Doyle  and  Big 
Finegan,  or  even  others  with  less  claim  upon  him,  if  he 
thought  them  decent  fellows  and  out  of  luck.  Simul- 
taneously, whether  through  his  exertions  or  not,  the 
fare  at  Mr.  Macfadden's  table  improved  and  his  most 
essential  implements  were  released  from  pawn;  so  that 
he  was  able  to  execute,  in  his  fashion  an  order  that 
opportunely  arrived. 

Now  this  order  was  for  a  sort  of  light  colored  long 
cloth  coat,  the  sort  of  thing  a  gentleman  of  sporting 
taste,  not  too  professedly  a  sportsman,  might  wear  at 
a  race  meeting;  and  one  might  think  that  it  showed 
Mr.  Macfadden  had  still  some  chance  of  making  his  way 
in  the  sartorial  world.  But  there  was  a  fly  in  the  oint- 
ment; for  the  order  was  given  by  Mr.  O'Toole  who 
had  somehow  got  on  in  the  world,  while  Mr.  Macfadden 
was  drifting  so  far  backwards  that  he  could  no  longer 
afford  to  reject  advances  even  from  him. 

The  coat  was  finished  and  damned  by  Mr.  O'Toole 
with  faint  praise;  but  it  was  paid  for,  and  being  paid 


136  ADAM  OF  DUBLIN 

for,  proved  to  be  Mr.  Macfadden's  last  artistic  triumph ; 
for  it  provided  him  with  a  whole  golden  sovereign  and 
some  shillings  for  drink,  and  what  could  Mr.  Macfadden 
do  with  the  money  of  that  dirty  though  victorious  dog 
of  a  Byron  O'Toole  but  drink  it?  Adam  was  present 
at  the  discussion  between  his  parents  as  to  the  appor- 
tionment of  this  money.  His  mother  said  that  the 
sovereign  must  go  in  rent.  His  father  answered  briefly : 
"  Rentmiyelbo ! "  and  stumbled  downstairs.  He  had 
already  been  drinking  then;  but  Adam  thought  nothing 
of  that ;  for  he  never  saw  him  now  that  he  had  not  been 
drinking,  the  moment  drink  was  to  be  had. 

Besides,  Adam  was  full  of  himself  to-day,  for  it  was 
his  ninth  birthday,  and  he  had  determined,  though  the 
sky  fall,  to  treat  himself  to  the  Pictures  at  the  Rotunda. 
This  last  year  Father  Innocent's  influence  on  him  had 
been  weakened  by  the  freethought  of  the  streets,  though 
he  had  lost  nothing  of  the  boy's  respect  for  his  saintly 
character ;  and  Adam,  though  he  knew  it  not,  was  passing 
through  a  phase  of  Hedonism.  Little  cared  he  whether 
his  father  was  drunk  or  sober,  so  long  as  he  did  not 
interfere  with  him.  He  even  found  himself  laughing 
contemptuously  to  see  his  great  body  go  floundering  and 
lurching  up  Count  Street  in  front  of  him,  as  though  the 
devil  were  driving  from  behind  rather  than  luring  from 
ahead.  It  was  nearly  an  hour  past  sunset  and  the  public- 
houses  were  lighting  up.  One  of  them  was  called  Clar- 
ence Mangan's,  and  he  knew  his  father  never  went  there 
now,  having  quarreled  with  the  manager,  Adam  knew  not 
why.  As  he  expected,  Mr.  Macfadden  shambled  past  it, 


MR.  MACFADDEN  IS  DISPLEASED        137 

then  suddenly  stopped,  pulled  off  his  hat  to  scratch  his 
head,  and,  giving  Adam  barely  time  to  flee  out  of  his 
way  across  the  street,  turned  back  and  went  in. 

Adam's  mind  was  cleared  of  all  hankering  for  the 
Pictures  by  a  scream  that  followed  instantly,  as  his 
mother  burst  out  through  the  public-house  doors,  as 
one  shot  from  a  cannon,  her  face  bruised  and  bleeding, 
and  his  father  hot  on  her  track  clouting  her  as  he  had 
clouted  Adam  all  the  way  home  from  Butt  Bridge, 
only  with  a  more  rabid  violence  and  the  greater  ease  in 
as  much  as  he  could  hit  straighter  from  the  shoulder 
without  leaning  down.  In  the  background  hovered  a 
rather  well  dressed  man,  babbling  mildly,  "But  all  the 
same,  you  know,  there's  no  call  to  do  that." 

For  once  Mr.  Macfadden  refrained  from  his  usual  form 
of  repartee.  He  seemed  to  be  sparing  his  breath,  that 
he  might  drive  his  wife  with  the  greater  force  before 
him,  and  stagger  after  her  with  the  closer  resentment. 
Just  once  he  threw  the  white  of  his  eye  over  his  shoulder 
at  the  man,  who  thereupon  walked  off  as  fast  as  he 
could  go,  and  in  the  direction  opposite  to  that  of  the 
Macfaddens.  Adam's  instinct  was  to  do  the  same,  leav- 
ing his  parents  once  more  to  fight  out  their  quarrel  with- 
out allowing  himself  to  be  made  a  whipping  boy  for 
either;  but  a  shriek  from  the  alley  down  which  they  had 
disappeared  called  him,  as  he  thought  no  word  of  hers 
could  call  him  to  his  mother's  help.  He  bounded  towards 
the  sound  like  a  young  wild  cat  and  came  up  with  the 
pair  as  they  were  struggling  at  the  hall  door  of  the  house 
in  which  they  lived.  His  mother's  shawl  had  somehow 


1 38  ADAM  OF  DUBLIN 

caught  in  the  railing,  and  she  clung  there  helplessly, 
while  his  father  battered  her  with  his  blows,  which  he 
directed  now  on  her  body  with  sickening  thuds  as  though 
the  bones  were  breaking  beneath  her  thick  flesh. 

"  Help !  "  she  cried  hoarsely.  "  Murder,  he's  meaning 
to  kill  me." 

"  And  if  I  am  that,"  roared  her  husband,  "  I'd  like 
to  see  the  one  that's  going  to  offer  to  help  you."  And 
indeed  there  was  no  offer;  for  though  many  windows 
were  thrown  up  and  much  interest  shown,  what  was 
there  after  all  to  do?  It  was  only  Macfadden  beating 
his  wife.  Every  one  knew  why. 

But  to  Adam  it  was  a  battle  cry:  the  cry  of  that 
woman,  who  for  good  or  evil,  had  given  him  life  and 
now  was  in  fear  of  losing  her  own:  for  Macfadden  he 
had  no  feeling  but  hatred,  contempt,  and  savage  terror: 
terror  so  great  that  he  dared  not  revenge  his  own 
wrongs.  But  to  save  his  mother  he  would  face  Macfad- 
den and  the  devil  too.  Without  a  thought  of  his  own 
danger  he  rushed  upon  him  and  struck  the  only  blow  that 
can  avail  a  child  against  a  man :  with  his  stoutly  booted 
right  foot  in  the  pit  of  his  father's  stomach. 

There  was  a  roar  of  delight,  mixed  with  religious  dis- 
approval, from  the  denizens  of  Count  Alley,  as  Mr.  Mac- 
fadden went  for  an  instant  to  earth,  in  a  stupor  of  drink, 
rage,  and  pain.  Then  he  rose  to  his  largest  self  with  a 
yell :  "  Bloody  parricide !  "  he  bellowed ;  "  let  me  do  for 
him  first  and  that  rollicking  mother  of  his  after." 

But  he  was  confronted  by  the  closed  and  bolted  hall 
door;  for  Adam  (become  in  his  own  brain  Jack  the 


MR.  MACFADDEN  IS  DISPLEASED        139 

Giant-Killer)  had  torn  his  mother's  shawl  from  the  rail- 
ing and  pushed  her  through  to  the  foot  of  the  stairs,  then 
turned  and  closed  the  way  behind  them,  ere  Mr.  Macfad- 
den  had  recovered  from  the  first  shock  of  the  assault. 
He  flung  himself  against  it  and  it  threatened  collapse. 
Upstairs  Adam,  hearing  the  great  weight  batter  against  it, 
recalled  how  Sinbad  (following  Ulysses)  had  disabled 
the  monster  who  ate  his  companions,  and  thrust  the  poker 
in  the  fire :  the  rage  of  the  man  below  was  at  a  heat  less 
white  and  blasting  than  his  own.  Here  was  not  only 
hate,  but  hate  fed  with  imagination,  that  flung  all  cosmos 
into  the  fray.  But  he  was  not  called  by  fate  to  do  execu- 
tion on  the  ruffian  whose  name  he  bore. 

The  landlord,  or  more  likely  his  deputy,  for  he  had  a 
heavyweight  prizefighter's  nose,  thrust  an  impressive  head 
up  from  the  area.  "  That'll  do  you  now,  that'll  do  you. 
Lave  my  dure  alone !  " 

"  Duremiyelbo !  "  Mr.  Macfadden  bellowed  back  at  him 
with  a  splendid  gesture  of  defiance;  but  pain  and  sur- 
prise had  sobered  him  enough  to  realize  that  his  ship 
was  almost  on  the  rocks ;  for  although  you  may  trounce 
your  wife  and  children  in  Count  Street  to  your  heart's 
content,  property  there  has  rights  as  sacred  as  in  Merrion 
Square.  A  policeman,  who  had  ignored  the  screams 
of  Mrs.  Macfadden  as  merely  harmless  local  color,  sud- 
denly sailed  into  the  alley.  Making  himself  look  as  big 
as  possible,  he  bore  down  on  Mr.  Macfadden. 

"What's  all  this  about?"  he  demanded,  twirling  his 
mustache,  the  better  to  conceal  an  irrepressible  twitch- 
ing of  his  lips,  as  he  realized  the  fighting  form  of  the 


140  ADAM  OF  DUBLIN 

beast  he  had  to  do  with.  "  What's  all  this,  my  man  ? 
Not  in  trouble,  I  hope.  .  .  .  No  drink  taken,  eh  ?  " 

The  tailor's  eyes  slowly  measured  the  policeman  from 
head  to  foot,  and  a  sly  merriment  glittered  in  it,  as  he 
reflected  that  he  could  kill  him  with  one  sledgehammer 
blow  not  far  from  the  place  where  he  himself  still  smarted 
from  his  son's  foot ;  but  he  had  the  Castle  behind  him  and 
maybe  a  sergeant  or  two  waiting  round  the  corner,  so 
there  was  no  good  in  that.  Mr.  Macfadden  was  deter- 
mined that  his  charity  should  begin  nearer  home.  He 
thrust  his  pipe  with  an  abrupt  movement  in  his  mouth 
and  produced  a  matchbox.  Then  at  last,  with  leering 
deference,  he  made  answer. 

"  Sure  some  one's  been  humbugging  you,  sergeant 
dear.  It's  little  trouble  we  ever  have  down  here.  There's 
no  rough  element  in  Count  Alley." 

The  sergeant  gained  false  confidence  from  this  dis- 
claimer. "  Will  you  tell  me  now  that  I  didn't  hear  the 
voice  of  a  female  raised  aloud  and  catch  you  mishandling 
that  door  with  your  boots  ?  "  he  demanded. 

" Ah,  sure,  not  at  all,"  retorted  the  tailor.  "If  you 
will  want  me  to  advise  you  about  my  family  business 
wasn't  I  just  for  belting  my  young  bastard  for  turning 
against  his  ma,  and  he  up  and  banged  the  door  in  my 
face,  there,  so  that  I  slipped  and  fell,  and  wasn't  I  fool 
enough  getting  up  to  hit  it  a  kick,  thinking  that  was  the 
easiest  way  to  open  it  with  my  hand  hurted  in  the  fall. 
And  then  this  gentleman  objected,  as  he  had  a  right  to, 
seeing  that  it's  his  duty  to  see  the  property  is  not  de- 
teriorated, and  thinking  that  by  mischance  I  might  kick 


MR.  MACFADDEN  IS  DISPLEASED        141 

it  off  the  hinges."  His  eye  sought  and  found  the  police- 
man's. "  I  do  kick  cruel  hard,  sergeant,  that's  my  mis- 
fortune, and  that's  a  fact." 

The  policeman's  hand  flew  from  his  mustache  to  the 
chain  of  his  whistle.  "  I  hope  it's  the  truth  you're  telling 
me  now  ?  "  he  blustered. 

Mr.  Macfadden  laughed  in  his  face.  "  As  if  I'd  tell  a 
grand  man  like  yourself  a  bloody  lie ! "  He  waved  his 
hand  with  the  pipe  in  it  towards  the  now  crowded  win- 
dows. "  Ask  all  these  ladies  and  gentlemen  whether  I'm 
the  man  to  tell  you  a  bloody  lie." 

"  Not  so  much  language,  my  man,"  growled  the  police- 
man, anxious  with  the  knowledge  that  he  was  losing  con- 
trol of  the  situation. 

"  Languagemiyelbo !  "  retorted  Mr.  Macfadden,  with  a 
sudden  recrudescence  of  triumphant  drunkenness,  calling 
on  him  to  draw  blood  then  and  there.  The  audience 
strained  forward  thinking  now  that  for  the  honor  of  his 
cloth  the  policeman  must  surely  try  to  take  him.  The 
weights  were  not  unequal,  the  constable  was  sober,  and  if 
the  tailor  had  the  greater  strength  and  the  longer  reach, 
the  policeman  had  his  baton,  if  only  Macfadden  was  not 
too  quick  to  let  him  draw  it.  They  could  see  that  he  was 
doubting  whether  he  would  draw  baton  or  whistle  first, 
and  that  something  desperate  in  the  leering  face  above 
the  limp  but  muscular  body  kept  him  inert.  He  dared 
not  make  himself  ridiculous  in  the  sight  of  all  by  calling 
for  help  before  he  was  touched  or  even  directly  threat- 
ened by  the  drunken  tailor.  So  they  stood  at  bay,  the 
policeman,  as  the  onlookers  were  rejoiced  for  no  defined 


142  ADAM  OF  DUBLIN 

reason  to  observe,  in  the  less  dignified  attitude  of  chal- 
lenge. At  last  Mr.  Macfadden,  with  the  open  insolence  of 
victory  cheaply  won,  went  on,  "  As  I  was  saying,  when 
you  interrupted  me,  inspector  dear,  these  ladies  and  gen- 
tlemen will  tell  you  that  I'm  the  amibelest  fellow  in 
Dublin  and  never  kilt  a  bobby  yet,  and  wouldn't  unless  I 
was  conthraried.  And  I'm  off  now  to  drink  your  honor's 
health  in  a  drop  of  Guinness  at  my  own  expense,  just  to 
show  I'm  not  a  bit  offended  at  all  at  all  with  you  for 
staring  at  me  as  hard  as  if  I  was  a  bloody  woman  from 
round  the  corner  that  you'd  maybe  get  the  better  of  if 
she'd  let  you."  He  touched  his  hat  and  strode  past  him 
and  away  with  a  firm  enough  step,  amidst  roars  of 
laughter  at  the  discomfiture  of  the  policeman. 

The  latter,  determined  to  have  the  last  word  as  the 
only  possible  step  towards  the  recovery  of  his  prestige, 
called  after  him,  "  I  can  smell  the  drink  on  you  from 
here."  But  Mr.  Macfadden  replied  merely  with  a  gesture 
which  did  not  necessitate  the  turning  of  his  head,  and 
disappeared.  Thereupon  the  constable  stepped  out 
briskly  with  the  air  of  being  about  to  do  great  things 
round  the  corner,  but  was  careful  on  reaching  it  to 
pretend  to  see  him  escaping  in  the  direction  which  he 
had  not  taken.  And  that  policeman  had  acted  for  the 
best  in  his  own  interests ;  had  he  crossed  Mr.  Macfadden 
further  to-night  he  would  have  sacrificed  himself  on  the 
altar  of  duty,  and  few  policemen  feel  their  wages  to  be 
high  enough  to  support  this  altruism. 

Though  on  fire  with  drink  and  not  to  be  stayed  alive 
by  the  arm  of  the  law,  Malachy  Macfadden  walked  cir- 


MR.  MACFADDEN  IS  DISPLEASED        143 

cumspectly  now.  He  was  not  looking  for  vulgar  trouble, 
rather  was  he  on  his  guard  against  its  surprising  him 
while  he  bent  his  mind  on  higher  things.  He  was  think- 
ing how  soon  it  would  be  possible  to  go  back  and  visit 
with  certainty  and  free  from  all  chance  of  interference 
upon  his  wife  and  son,  his  wife  and  her  son,  heaven's 
wrath  for  their  conspiracy  in  witchcraft  and  rebellion. 
He  besought  his  special  Providence  (for  he  was  a 
damnably  devout  man  and  never  more  so  than  when  he 
felt  the  emotions  which  we  are  taught  belong  to  God 
alone),  to  tell  Him,  as  between  master  and  servant,  if 
there  had  ever  been  such  a  Christian  martyr  as  himself. 
And  his  special  Providence,  made  in  his  own  image,  as- 
sured him  there  was  not;  so  his  case  called  for  special 
judgment  such  as  the  common  law  does  not  provide.  His 
rage  was  directed  mainly  against  his  wife;  for  he  could 
not  imagine  the  meek  and  futile  Adam,  fit  only  to  sell 
newspapers,  venturing  of  his  own  accord  to  stand  against 
him.  He  blamed  her  at  once  for  two  deadly  if  incom- 
patible crimes :  firstly  that  she  had  inspired  his  own  son 
to  rise  in  open  insurrection  against  him,  and  secondly 
for  being  the  mother  of  this  son  whom  he  saw  now  not 
to  be  his.  "  It  was  she  that  learned  her  bastard  to  kick  his 
own  da,"  he  mumbled,  as  he  strode.  "It  was  she  that 
learned  him  to  kick  his  da  where  he  did.  Faix,  I'll 
kick  her  where  she'll  never  bear  another  bastard !  "  and 
his  eye  saw  the  room  where  Adam  was  born  strewn  with 
his  mother's  gore. 

These  are  hungry  thoughts  for  a  strong  man.     He 
went  into  a  tavern  on  the  quay  and  ate  and  drank, 


144  ADAM  OF  DUBLIN 

without  allowing  himself  to  get  more  drunk,  then  he 
swung  into  the  street  and  crossed  Butt  Bridge,  with  a 
notion  of  finding  on  the  south  side  some  place  of  enter- 
tainment other  than  a  public-house.  The  music  halls 
he  tried  were  full,  or  those  in  charge  of  them  said  so 
to  Mr.  Macfadden,  perceiving  him  to  be  approaching 
that  happy  state.  Attracted  by  a  placard  in  Hawkins 
Street  announcing  Mr.  Oswald  Onsin's  London  Company 
in  the  enormous  success  from  the  Grand  Theater,  Lon- 
don: "What  Rot,"  by  Oswald  Onsin,  "Produced  by 
Oswald  Onsin,"  he  lumbered  to  the  gallery  pay-box  of 
the  Theater  Royal  and  demanded  "  sixpennyworth  of 
your  bloody  rot,"  but  the  check  taker  at  the  top  of  the 
stairs,  supported  by  a  policeman,  declined  to  admit  him, 
and,  receiving  back  his  money,  he  retired  under  cover 
of  a  fire  of  epigrams  in  which  the  name  of  the  advertised 
author  of  the  play  became  Mr.  Oscar  Miyelbo.  He  was 
the  more  provoked  because  at  the  very  bottom  of  the  gal- 
lery steps  was  exhibited  a  most  intriguing  picture  of  a 
lady  wearing  a  tall  hat  and  pyjamas,  pursued  by  a  gentle- 
man in  frilly  nightdress.  Above  this  picture  were  printed 
boldly  the  words,  "  What  Rot,"  and  beneath :  "  Who  can 
stop  It?  "  And  as  he  gazed  on  it  the  great  heart  of  that 
patriotic  Irishman,  Malachy  Macfadden  was  conscious 
of  a  feeling  in  common  with  the  great  heart  of  the 
British  public ;  he  would,  however,  have  denied  it. 

He  wandered  on  into  Brunswick  Street  to  see  what 
was  doing  at  the  Queen's.  It  was  closed,  so  he  turned 
back  again  and  crossed  Butt  Bridge  and  Beresford  Place. 
There  was  a  crowd  there,  a  very  modest  one,  listening 


MR.  MACFADDEN  IS  DISPLEASED        145 

to  a  short  man  with  a  black  mustache  who  addressed 
them  from  the  steps  of  Liberty  Hall,  using  language  not 
in  Mr.  Macfadden's  vocabulary.  So  Mr.  Macfadden  just 
roared  "  Libertymiyelbo ! "  at  him  and  passed  on  into 
Abbey  Street  .  .  .  There  on  his  left  hand  he  caught 
sight  of  yellow  bills,  such  as  those  which  had  attracted 
Adam's  curiosity  many  months  before.  They  stood  out- 
side a  building  he  still  remembered  as  the  Morgue.  He 
used  to  go  there  often  when  he  was  a  lad,  to  see  the 
coroner's  jury  sitting  on  sailors  and  women  dragged  out 
of  the  river,  or  murdered  down  the  quayside  as  far  as 
the  North  Wall.  Once  he  had  been  called  in  as  a  juryman 
himself,  as  he  was  passing  by  on  urgent  business,  going 
to  back  Father  O'Flynn  for  the  Grand  National,  no  less, 
that  had  cost  him  thirty-five  shillings  or  more,  and  all  to 
sit  on  a  blasted  baby  that  had  been  dug  out  of  a  sewer 
under  Mecklenburg  Street.  What  fools  men  were !  How 
they  wasted  their  time  and  other  people's  money ! 
Now  the  place  was  turned  into  a  queer  sort  of  theater,  not 
a  real  theater  like  the  Queen's,  where  you  could  see  a  rail- 
way engine  running  over  a  policeman,  or  the  British 
Army  scuttling  for  life  from  a  patriot  in  a  green  tie,  but 
where  they  spouted  like  street  preachers  and  see-sawed 
with  their  hands.  He  remembered  once  on  a  Bank  Holi- 
day, seeing  the  word,  "  Kincora  "  on  the  bills.  He  was 
with  two  other  fellows  who  had  a  sup  taken  and  they  all 
thought  Kincora  must  be  about  a  lad  drinking  Mooney's 
whisky,  and  either  getting  funny  on  it  or  going  grand  and 
mad,  so  they  all  paid  sixpence  each  and  went  in.  But 
sure  it  was  nothing  of  the  kind.  The  place  was  as  dismal 


i46  ADAM  OF  DUBLIN 

as  a  methody  chapel  and  not  a  soul  scarcely  in  it  but 
an  old  Protestant  clergyman  asleep  in  the  stalls !  As 
for  the  play,  you  couldn't  make  head  or  tail  of  it, 
except  that  the  leading  character  let  on  to  be  called 
King  Brian  Boru,  and  talked  as  if  he  were  tipsy,  but 
he  said  nothing  about  drinking  Kincora  an'd  the  whole 
thing  being  obviously  a  fraud,  at  the  end  of  the  first  act 
they  threatened  to  wreck  the  theater  unless  they  got  their 
money  back,  and  so  came  away  and  spent  their  sixpences 
on  real  Kincora  in  Marlborough  Street. 

But  the  placard  now  in  front  of  him  was  different. 
That  said,  "  The  Playboy  of  the  Western  World."  He 
scratched  his  head  to  think.  He  seemed  to  remember 
hear  tell  that  was  an  immoral  play,  a  play  insulting 
to  religion  and  decency,  that  had  been  hissed  off  the 
stage  years  ago.  He  was  almost  sure  some  one  had 
told  him  that  (perhaps  it  was  Emily  Robinson,  she 
knew  everything,  the  Lord  have  mercy  on  her!)  when 
Adam  was  just  old  enough  to  carry  the  jug  to  the  public 
bar.  Was  it  possible  they  had  the  impudence  to  put 
it  on  the  stage  again  after  Marlborough  Street  had 
declared  against  it?  He  knew  he  had  heard  of  some- 
thing grossly  indecent  in  it,  but  he  could  not  recall  what 
it  was,  being  a  bit  moidered  by  the  drink  and  the  con- 
trariness of  everything  to-night  ...  he  was  curious 
to  know  was  this  really  the  same  play  ...  he  fumbled 
six  coppers  out  of  his  pocket  and  went  in. 

Rotten  hole  the  Abbey  Theater,  you  couldn't  swing  a 
cat  in  it,  and  yet  not  half  full.  How  did  they  make 
it  pay  ?  Was  it  subsidized  from  Dublin  Castle  to  corrupt 


MR.  MACFADDEN  IS  DISPLEASED        147 

the  people?  The  audience  dotted  about  were  mostly 
young  men,  reading  books  or  papers,  without  a  spark 
of  excitement  in  them.  They  didn't  seem  to  care  if  the 
curtain  never  went  up.  Mr.  Macfadden  was  the  old 
enthusiastic  style  of  playgoer:  he  stamped  for  thirteen 
minutes  until  the  orchestra  came  in,  and  quieted  him  with 
familiar  airs,  he  dozed  a  little  until  they  ceased,  and  then 
stamped,  like  a  giant  refreshed,  until  the  curtain  at  last 
rose.  The  play  was  not  at  all  what  he  had  been  led  to 
expect:  two  gentlemen  and  a  lady  in  queer  old  clothes 
talked  gibberish  to  each  other  as  politely  as  if  they  lived 
in  Rathmines.  One  of  them  was  called  Robert  Emmet, 
but  he  was  no  more  like  the  Robert  Emmet  that  lived  in 
Mr.  Macfadden's  spiritual  world,  than  was  the  Brian 
Boru  of  "Kincora"  like  Mr.  Macfadden's  Brian  Boru, 
that  was  done  to  death  by  Strongbow  on  Mud  Island. 
The  whole  story  might  have  been  "  Kincora  "  over  again, 
only  for  trifling  differences  in  the  costumes  and  scenery, 
and  the  presence  of  a  queer  sort  of  piano-organ  that 
played  "Let  Erin  Remember,"  when  there  was  no  one 
near  enough  to  lay  hand  or  foot  on  it.  Then  Robert 
Emmet  burst  out  crying  because  it  wouldn't  let  him  get  a 
word  in  edgeways  and  the  curtain  came  down. 

"Is  that  tripe  what  you  call  'The  Playboy  of  the 
Western  World  '  ?  "  Mr.  Macfadden  shouted  to  the  near- 
est group  of  young  men. 

They  laughed  shyly,  and  one  of  them,  consulting  his 
program,  answered  that  it  was  called  "  An  Imaginary 
Conversation." 

"  Conversationmiyelbo,"   cried    Mr.    Macfadden.      "  I 


i48  ADAM  OF  DUBLIN 

paid  my  money,  to  see  '  The  Playboy  of  the  Western 
World,'  and  if  they  can't  show  me  that  I'll  take  it  some- 
where there's  a  bit  of  fun." 

"If  you  wait  long  enough  you'll  see  the  *  Playboy '  all 
right,"  they  answered,  and  gradually  sidled  farther  from 
him,  not  fancying  his  truculent  tone.  So  he  led  off  with 
his  heels  again  and  kept  at  it,  orchestra  or  no  orchestra, 
until  he  fell  asleep  and  snored  solidly  through  the  first 
and  second  acts.  But  the  clatter  of  the  last  act  woke 
him  and  he  gazed  around  resentfully. 

"What  the  hell  is  all  this  hullabaloo?"  he  demanded 
in  a  voice  that  drowned  the  simulated  bass  of  old  Christy 
Mahon.  But  the  actors  inured  to  interruption  took  no 
notice  nor  halted  in  the  wild  business  of  the  tragic  farce. 
Mr.  Macfadden  was  enthralled :  half  a  dozen  men  were 
holding  another  down  that  had  his  teeth  buried  in  yet 
another's  calf,  and  a  young  girl  was  trying  to  get  at  one 
or  other  of  them  with  a  pair  of  red-hot  tongs.  Mr.  Mac- 
fadden clapped  his  hands:  he  had  never  seen  anything 
half  so  good  on  the  stage  before.  A  fellow  in  a  night- 
shirt chasing  a  girl  in  pyjamas  was  poor  fun  compared 
with  this.  "  There's  a  bit  of  humor  for  you,"  he  called 
delightedly  to  his  neighbors,  who  affected  not  to  hear  but 
huddled  still  farther  away.  Louder  grew  the  riot  on  the 
stage,  overwhelming  at  last  even  his  approving  voice,  and 
he  gazed  spellbound,  forgetful  even  of  his  injured  honor. 
Then  suddenly  there  was  a  hush:  a  half  animal  form 
crawled  in  from  the  back  of  the  scene,  reared  up,  and 
revealed  a  hairy  monster  of  a  man  with  a  clotted 
bandage  round  his  skull.  Mr.  Macfadden  gathered  that 


MR.  MACFADDEN  IS  DISPLEASED        149 

he  was  the  father  of  the  young  lad  with  the  nippy 
teeth,  the  others  were  holding  down  and  the  girl  going 
to  burn  with  the  tongs.  Mr.  Macfadden  was  annoyed 
with  him  as  a  kill-joy,  and  hissed  and  hooted,  but  still 
the  actors  went  on  acting  imperturbably :  no  one  there 
or  in  the  audience  took  the  smallest  notice  of  him.  It 
was  maddening  in  itself  for  so  big  a  man  to  be  ig- 
nored. .  .  .  But  a  moment  later  he  could  stand  it  no 
longer;  for  the  young  lad  was  rio  sooner  released  from 
his  captors,  at  his  father's  instance,  than  he  turned  on 
the  latter  and  drove  him  with  violence  off  the 
stage. 

This  was  the  last  straw.  Mr.  Macfadden  leaped  on  to 
his  seat  and  howled  at  the  top  of  his  voice,  "  I  call  the 
Almighty  to  witness  that  this  play  is  a  bloody  scandal 
to  good  Catholics.  .  .  .  Playboymiyelbo !  Playboy- 
miyelbo ! "  But  still  the  performance  went  on,  until 
against  his  own  roar  he  could  hear  the  girl  shrieking 
as  though  it  were  a  personal  matter  between  her  and 
himself  which  should  have  the  last  word :  "  My  grief 
I've  surely  lost  him  now,  the  only  playboy  of  the  West- 
ern World ! "  And  the  curtain  fell  amidst  applause 
chiefly  intended  to  smother  Mr.  Macfadden's  language. 

The  audience  drifted  out.  Mr.  Macfadden,  shearing 
half  a  dozen  of  the  Intelligentsia  of  Dublin  out  of  his 
way,  swept  into  the  vestibule.  He  found  there  a  very 
little  man  struggling  into  his  overcoat.  Mr.  Macfadden 
descended  on  him  with  clenched  fists. 

"  I  want  to  see  the  author  of  that  scandalous  play," 
he  cried. 


150  ADAM  OF  DUBLIN 

"  The  first  or  second  ? "  asked  the  little  man 
wearily. 

"  The  man  that  wrote  the  '  Playboy.'  That's  the  lad  I 
want." 

The  little  man  looked  at  a  cab  which  stood  with  open 
door  awaiting  him.  "  Is  it  urgent  ?  "  he  asked. 

"  Urgent's  the  word,"  returned  Mr.  Macfadden.  "  I 
want  to  knock  his  head  off." 

"  I  see,"  said  the  little  man,  with  the  condescending 
humility  of  a  shop  walker.  "  There's  no  time  to  be 
lost." 

"There  is  not,"  answered  Mr.  Macfadden  in  a  tone 
which  implied  that  the  little  man's  head  might  be  found 
to  serve  his  immediate  purpose.  "  Be  quick  and  tell  me 
now  where  I'll  find  him." 

"Mount  Jerome,"  answered  the  little  man  promptly. 
"Take  the  Harold's  Cross  tram  from  the  Pillar."  He 
stepped  briskly  past  Mr.  Macfadden  into  his  cab,  and 
as  it  was  moving  off  opened  the  window  to  add,  "  You 
needn't  be  afraid  of  his  hitting  you  back.  But  you'll 
want  a  pick-axe  or  you'll  break  your  nails." 

"  Is  it  a  corpse  you  want  me  to  kill,  you  snot  ?  " 

Mr.  Macfadden  sprang  forward  to  splinter  the  cab 
about  its  occupant's  ears,  but  crashed  in  his  blind  rage 
into  the  lamp  post  to  which  he  held,  kicking  it  im- 
potently.  Then  he  dived  thirstily  across  the  road  into  a 
public-house  and  drank  there  until  closing  time.  All 
caution  had  fallen  from  him  when  he  came  out.  He  was 
as  bereft  of  reason  as  the  bull  goaded  by  spear  and  ban- 
dillero  to  charge  the  matador.  Yet  his  soul  was  possessed 


MR.  MACFADDEN  IS  DISPLEASED        151 

of  a  notion  of  outrageous  joy:  to  avenge  all  his  mani- 
fold wrongs  at  one  fell  swoop  upon  the  naughty  world. 
Earlier  in  the  evening,  when  comparatively  sober,  he  had 
thought  mainly  of  the  wrongs  he  had  to  avenge  upon  his 
wife;  then  in  the  theater  he  realized  from  the  sight  of 
the  action  upon  the  stage,  the  still  greater  enormity  of 
Adam's  offense ;  and  now  in  the  first  stages  of  delirium 
tremens,  a  yet  more  provoking  image  rose  before  him: 
the  handsome  whiskered,  sniggering  Mr.  Byron  O'Toole, 
with  his  fantastic  claim  to  be  a  gentleman  of  blood  and 
his  fatal  fascination  for  the  merry  wives  of  Marlborough 
Street.  He  would  pay  for  presuming  to  patronize  Mr. 
Malachy  Macfadden  with  his  dirty  custom.  First  of  all 
Mr.  Macfadden  would  deal  with  him.  Then  no  one  could 
say  that  he  swung  for  a  woman  and  child  and  let  the 
man  who  was  the  cause  of  all  go  free. 

It  wanted  half  an  hour  of  midnight  as  he  hurried 
straight  enough  for  all  the  drink  he  carried,  swinging 
his  heavy  hands  up  Marlborough  Street.  There  was 
little  light  in  Mountjoy  Court  and  the  hall  door  was 
closed.  He  lit  his  pipe  and  waited,  patiently  smoking, 
until  the  stroke  of  midnight  from  St.  George's  bells 
when  a  woman  opened  it  to  come  out.  He  gave  her  a 
confident  "  God  save  ye,"  as  though  an  inmate,  and 
passed  through,  closed  the  door  behind  him  and  found 
himself  in  pitch  darkness.  By  the  light  blown  from  his 
pipe  he  climbed  as  softly  as  he  could  the  great  welled, 
dilapidated  staircase,  the  timber  squelching  under  his 
heavy  weight.  Towards  the  top  floor  where,  despite  the 
improvement  in  his  position  Mr.  O'Toole  still  modestly 


152  ADAM  OF  DUBLIN 

elected  to  live,  the  flooring  was  so  rotten  he  had  to  strike 
a  match  to  evade  disaster.  When  reassured  as  to  his 
surroundings  he  blew  it  out,  waited  to  take  his  breath 
after  the  climb,  and  then  tried  the  door :  it  was  fastened, 
but  he  could  see  a  dim  light  within.  He  tapped  as 
gently  as  his  iron  fingers  would  allow.  There  was  no 
answer.  He  tapped  again,  louder. 

A  woman's  voice  called  faintly,  as  one  who  wishes  no 
reply:  "Who's  there?" 

He  said  nothing  but  tapped  again,  louder. 

"  What  do  you  want  ?  "  asked  the  timid  voice. 

"  Mr.  Byron  O'Toole  is  wanted,"  he  answered,  hoarse 
with  the  effort  to  muffle  his  tone  and  struggle  against 
the  vapors  bursting  through  his  brain. 

The  voice  came  more  than  ever  hesitatingly,  "Who 
wants  him  ?  " 

Mr.  Macfadden's  voice  took  it  upon  itself  to  answer, 
"  Emily  Robinson,"  and  Mr.  Macfadden  hearing,  realized 
that  he  was  mad  drunk  and  could  no  longer  disguise  it. 
He  heard  a  frantic  whispering  inside  and  knew  for 
certain  that  his  enemy  was  there  cornered  so  that  he 
could  not  escape ;  for  Malachy  was  not  the  man  to  be 
stopped  by  a  lodging  house  door.  ...  He  spat  on  his 
hands  and  took  a  fresh  grip  of  the  door  handle.  The 
whole  floor  of  the  house  trembled  with  his  nervous 
rage.  The  voice  from  within  came  in  awestruck  accents. 
"What  are  you  saying  about  Emily  Robinson?  Sure 
isn't  she  dead  and  buried  ?  " 

"  Never  mind  if  she  is  that,"  answered  Mr.  Macfadden, 
laughing  at  his  own  humor.  "  She  sent  me  for  O'Toole." 


MR.  MACFADDEN  IS  DISPLEASED        153 

There  was  a  scream  in  the  question,  "Who  are  you 
at  all?" 

Then  he  thundered  through  the  door,  "  Tell  O'Toole 
I'm  Macfadden  come  to  call  him  to  my  wife  and  Emily 
Robinson  and  Fan  Tweedy,  and  all  his  other  mops  in 
hell." 

There  was  a  scuttling  inside  and  the  sound  of  a 
window  thrown  open,  while  Macfadden's  pressure  threat- 
ened to  start  the  panels  of  the  door.  The  woman's  voice 
broke  forth  in  a  despairing  wail.  "  Sure  Mr.  (O'Toole 
has  never  been  in  here  this  night.  .  .  .  For  Christ's  sake 
go  away  now." 

"  Christmiyelbo !  "  answered  Mr.  Macfadden,  as  a  final 
challenge  to  his  enemies,  and,  stepping  back  to  throw 
his  full  weight  against  the  door,  dropped  his  heel  in  the 
crumbling  wood,  waved  his  mighty  arms  vainly  to  re- 
cover his  balance,  toppled  through  the  broken  balus- 
trade, and  fell,  bounding  and  rebounding  from  side 
to  side  of  the  handsomely  welled  staircase,  until  he 
reached  the  hall  four  floors  below.  His  ghost  may 
rise  to  haunt  our  pages  still  but  his  body  rested 
there. 

So  perished  Malachy  Macfadden,  a  victim  to  his  en- 
vironment and  the  system  of  government  that  created 
it.  We  do  not  state  his  case  as  one  of  Ireland's  wrongs : 
thousands  of  Macfaddens  under  other  names  smell  no 
sweeter  in  London,  Liverpool,  Newcastle,  Glasgow,  or 
where  you  please,  from  Plymouth  to  Aberdeen.  And 
our  Mr.  Macfadden  had  a  privilege  not  shared  by  all ; 
for  the  next  day  Father  Innocent  knelt  by  his  bier  and 


154  ADAM  OF  DUBLIN 

prayed  piteously  to  God  for  the  soul  of  his  poor  brother. 
It  is  easy  to  believe  that  so  long  as  there  be  Innocents 
to  pray  for  them,  the  Macfaddens  need  not  fear  eternal 
damnation,  but  who  is  so  good  a  Catholic  as  to  desire  the 
pleasure  of  their  company  in  heaven? 


CHAPTER  XV 

MR.  MAcFADDEN'S  LAST  PROGRESS  AND 
EPITAPH 

MRS.  MACFADDEN'S  mind  had  the  limitations  of  a  lusty 
body,  bred  in  darkness  by  bodies  that  for  generations 
had  forgotten  the  light.  One  must  not  say  she  could 
not  live  out  of  this  darkness,  but  it  is  doubtful  if  she 
would  have  been  any  the  happier  for  it.  Yet  even  her 
blackness  had  been  more  atramentous  for  the  companion- 
ship of  Malachy  Macfadden:  the  dark  of  her  mind  was 
not  so  pitchy  that  she  was  unconscious  of  the  shadow 
he  had  thrown  upon  it.  Whatever  tenderness  lingered 
in  her  once  sordidly  passionate  and  now  soured  and 
twisted  nature  was  roused  to  show  itself  that  night 
Adam  saved  her  life :  as  well  she  knew,  from  the  brutish 
sot  she  had  so  rashly  married  longer  ago  than  she  clearly 
recalled.  Even  in  her  abasement  of  terror,  she  felt  a 
pride  in  seeing  the  cub,  begotten  of  her  body  in  the 
one  moment  of  joy  that  haunted  her  memory,  spring 
into  reality  as  something  transcending  her  foul  experi- 
ence of  life.  She  had  brought  forth  a  David  to  save 
her  from  her  Goliath.  These  names  did  not  occur  to  her, 
but  the  mental  picture  was  there  somewhere  in  her  dazed 
brain. 

Through  the  night  mother  and  son  sat  side  by  side 
on  the  bed,  waiting  for  the  worst.    The  door  locked  and 
iSS 


156  ADAM  OF  DUBLIN 

barricaded  to  stay  the  intruder  while  they  parleyed,  the 
window  open  to  scream  for  help  if  he  would  not  listen. 
In  her  heart,  she  knew  her  husband  would  listen  to  her 
no  more!  that  he  was  thirsting  now  for  blood  in  prefer- 
ence to  alcohol  and  Adam  betrayed  his  topmost  thought 
by  keeping  the  fire  redly  burning  with  the  poker  in  it.  He 
had  never  known  such  masterful  rage  before,  and  his 
mother's  tacit  gratitude  for  his  prowess  gave  it  an  edge 
of  self-confidence.  Never  again  would  his  father  lay 
hands  on  him  or  on  his  mother  before  his  eyes. 

With  morning  came  brusquely  a  policeman  with  the 
news  that  a  body  alleged  to  be  that  of  one  Malachy 
Macfadden  of  Count  Alley,  had  been  found  with  the 
neck  broken  at  the  bottom  of  a  staircase  in  the  premises 
known  as  3  Mount  joy  Court,  and  was  now  lying  at  the 
City  Mortuary,  where  an  inquest  would  be  held  in  due 
course.  The  widow  of  the  deceased  would  be  required 
formally  to  identify  his  remains  and  to  answer  any  ques- 
tions the  coroner  or  jurymen  might  see  fit  to  put  to  her. 

Mrs.  Macfadden's  apron  flew  to  her  eyes.  "  Oh,  the 
poor  dear  to  think  of  it !  "  she  cried.  "  And  me  expecting 
him  home  every  minute  all  the  night ! "  She  broke  off 
to  tell  the  policeman  triumphantly  "  I  haven't  had  a 
wink  of  sleep."  But  he  was  unimpressed  and  answered 
roughly  that  anyhow  he  was  not  there  to  listen  to  her 
gab  but  to  order  her  what  she  was  to  do  and  failing 
to  do  would  find  it  so  much  the  worse  for  her.  And  with 
that  he  took  his  leave. 

Adam  and  his  mother  had  breakfast  silently.  He 
wondered  of  what  she  might  be  thinking  as  she  sat 


MR.  MACFADDEN'S  LAST  PROGRESS     157 

opposite  to  him,  he  in  the  dead  man's  place,  munching 
her  bread  and  butter  moistened  with  tea,  leisurely  as  a 
cow  in  a  meadow.  At  last  she  said,  as  though  abandon- 
ing a  problem  of  some  difficulty :  "  I  don't  know  who  to 
ask  to  the  wake,  only  Mr.  O'Toole." 

Adam  stared  at  her,  his  cup  half  way  to  his  lips. 
"Will  they  let  him  come?" 

She  laughed  in  her  apron  to  find  that  he  supposed  his 
godfather  to  be  under  lock  and  key  for  slaying  her  hus- 
band. "  Catch  O'Toole  standing  up  against  a  man  like 
Macfadden !  Sure  he'd  run  from  a  hen  he  saw  he 
wasn't  afraid  of  him,  for  all  his  high  ways.  It's  little 
you  take  after  him." 

Adam  was  more  than  a  trifle  mystified  by  the  close 
as  well  as  the  opening  of  this  statement;  but,  although 
he  saw  he  need  no  longer  be  afraid  of  his  mother,  shy- 
ness forbade  him  to  question  her.  Presently  Father 
Innocent  called.  The  widow  received  him  becomingly, 
and  while  he  was  there,  Adam  thought  she  really  seemed 
cloudily  sorry  for  her  loss.  She  became,  as  it  were,  an 
abstract  widow  mourning  her  dead.  She  used  few 
canting  words,  but  real  tears  channeled  her  grimy  cheeks. 
Perhaps  she  had  known  a  Macfadden  unknown  to  him, 
a  Macfadden  that  for  a  day,  a  week,  or  more,  had  been 
clean  and  kind  and  honest  in  her  eyes ;  perhaps  the  little 
priest  created  such  an  image  from  his  own  fancy  and  gave 
it  a  momentary  reality  in  hers.  But  Adam  had  no  feeling 
for  the  dead  man  even  with  all  Father  Innocent's  ad- 
vocacy, but  a  childish  hatred  and  contempt.  He  was 
glad  that  Father  Innocent  told  him  that  he  need  not  go 


158  ADAM  OF  DUBLIN 

with  his  mother  to  the  inquest :  he  wished  never  to  see  that 
brutal   form  again. 

The  coroner  found  nothing  over  which  to  waste  his 
time  and  the  jury's  in  the  case  of  Malachy  Macfadden. 
The  medical  evidence  showed  that  he  died  of  a  fracture 
of  the  cervical  vertebrae,  which,  as  well  as  his  minor 
injuries,  might  well  have  been  occasioned  by  an  acci- 
dental fall  from  a  height.  There  was  no  mark  of  vio- 
lence. The  police  provided  evidence  that  he  had  been 
found  drunk  and  disorderly  outside  his  residence  early 
in  the  evening,  but  had  evaded  arrest  by  taking  flight 
into  Count  Street.  There  was  reason  to  believe  that 
he  had  subsequently  visited  sundry  public-houses  and 
sought  admission  to  more  than  one  place  of  entertain- 
ment, and  created  a  disturbance  at  the  Abbey  Theater, 
also  that  the  staircase  at  the  premises,  3  Mountjoy  Court, 
was  not  in  serviceable  repair.  Finally  Mr.  OToole, 
presenting  a  distinguished  figure  in  his  new  overcoat, 
bore  witness  that  he  had  heard  the  deceased  voice's  de- 
manding admission  to  the  apartments  temporarily  occu- 
pied by  him  on  the  top  floor  of  3  Mountjoy  Court,  about 
midnight,  and,  fearing  to  disturb  the  neighboring  ladies 
and  gentlemen,  called  to  him,  without  opening  the  door, 
to  go  home,  as  he  was  in  bed  and  asleep.  That  he  heard 
the  deceased,  as  he  supposed  descending  the  stairs,  and 
knew  no  more  about  the  matter  until  informed  in  the 
morning  of  his  melancholy  fate  which  shocked  him  very 
much  as  he  had  regarded  the  deceased  almost  in  the 
light  of  a  prodigy.  Questioned  by  a  juryman,  he  did 
not  mean  prodigal,  but  would  say  protege,  if  the  coroner 


MR.  MACFADDEN'S  LAST  PROGRESS     159 

preferred  that  word.  He  and  the  deceased  were  on  the 
best  of  terms.  He  had  recently  given  the  deceased  an 
important  order  for  which  he  had  paid  spot  cash.  Not- 
withstanding the  lateness  of  the  hour  for  a  business  call, 
it  was  not  impossible  that  the  deceased  had  come  to 
solicit  further  commands.  He  was  the  sort  of  man  to  act 
on  impulse  in  matters  of  business,  particularly  with  cus- 
tomers who  would  consider  the  payment  of  spot  cash. 
He  believed  the  deceased  and  his  wife  to  be  on  the  best 
of  terms  and  that  she  was  of  great  help  to  him  in  his 
business.  So  far  as  he  knew,  deceased  had  not  an 
enemy  in  the  world.  He  was  not  prepared  to  deny  that 
he  was  an  uncertain  tempered  man  when  drunk  and 
might  have  been  difficult  to  get  rid  of  had  he  admitted 
him.  Still,  he  regretted,  now  that  it  was  too  late,  that 
he  had  not  taken  this  risk.  Blood  was  thicker  than  water. 
He  did  not  mean  to  convey  that  the  deceased  was  a  rela- 
tion of  his.  He  would  be  sorry  to  think  so.  This  con- 
cluded his  evidence,  which  made  a  good  impression  on 
those  members  of  the  jury  who  knew  nothing  of  him. 

In  fine,  the  coroner  told  the  jufy  that  as  long  as  the 
Abbey  Theater  was  allowed  to  exercise  its  pernicious 
influence,  he  supposed  such  things  would  happen  in 
Dublin.  In  Philadelphia  and  all  enlightened  American 
cities  you  would  be  sent  to  jail  for  attempting  to  perform 
such  a  piece  as  that  the  deceased  was  said  by  the  police 
(and  he  saw  no  reason  to  doubt  their  evidence)  to  have 
been  present  at  immediately  before  the  fatal  act  which 
prematurely  ended  his  no  doubt  valuable  life.  But  he 
would  take  a  charitable  view  and  direct  them  to  return  a 


160  ADAM  OF  DUBLIN 

verdict  of  death  by  misadventure.  This  they  cheerfully 
did,  and  the  body  was  handed  over  to  the  widow.  Adam 
read  the  report  in  the  Herald,  snappily  set  forth  under 
the  rubric,  "  City  Coroner  sits  on  Synge." 

Adam's  first  use  of  his  new  freedom  was  his  refusal 
to  attend  the  wake.  When  he  saw  his  father  in  his 
coffin  he  found  it  agreeable  to  reflect  that  he  could 
never  get  out  of  it,  but  would  be  put  away  at  remote 
Glasnevin  until  doomsday.  To  please  Father  Innocent, 
he  knelt  beside  him  and  joined  his  voice  listlessly  in  the 
prayers  for  the  dead.  No  soul  was  ever  damned  with 
fainter  praise.  As  soon  as  Father  Innocent  had  departed, 
warning  the  widow  against  any  paganism  in  the  funeral 
rites,  Adam,  despite  his  mother's  half-hearted  remon- 
strance, went  off  to  sell  his  papers  as  usual. 

When  he  returned,  late  as  he  could  be,  the  festivities 
were  over,  the  guests  departing.  It  had  been  a  tame 
evening,  tamer,  said  Count  Alley,  than  the  corpse  would 
have  liked.  But  what  could  he  do,  poor  devil,  Lord 
have  mercy  on  him,  lying  there  in  his  coffin,  with  that 
O'Toole  giving  himself  airs  like  the  Lord  Lieutenant, 
and  carrying  on  as  if  the  place  and  everything  in  it, 
including  the  corpse  itself,  belonged  to  him.  They  con- 
soled themselves  by  saying  as  they  came  away,  just  loud 
enough  and  no  more  for  their  hosts  to  hear,  "  Murder 
will  out,"  being  all  fully  convinced  that  Mr.  Byron 
O'Toole  had  for  some  motive  which  only  God  knew 
and  might  never  explain,  lured  Mr.  Malachy  Macfadden 
to  the  top  of  the  Mountjoy  Court  staircase  and  then 
pushed  him  through  the  railings.  In  the  other  scale, 


MR.  MACFADDEN'S  LAST  PROGRESS      161 

they  could  not  unreservedly  censure  the  widow  for  pre- 
ferring O'Toole  to  the  deceased,  for  there  was  no  get- 
ting away  from  it  that  O'Toole,  when  he  liked,  was  a 
perfect  gentleman,  particularly  with  ladies,  whereas  the 
deceased,  Lord  have  mercy  on  him,  had  never  been 
better  than  a  public  nuisance.  Although  they  hoped 
Mr.  Byron  O'Toole  would  be  hanged  for  it,  they  con- 
gratulated each  other  that  Mr.  Malachy  Macfadden  was 
dead. 

Adam  went  to  the  funeral,  looking  forward  to  the 
enjoyment  of  it  as  his  first  pageant.  .  .  .  He,  his  mother, 
Mr.  O'Toole,  and  Father  Innocent  filled  a  mourning 
coach,  following  a  hearse  second  only  in  dignity  to  the 
one  which  Mr.  O'Toole,  who  had  made  the  arrangements, 
would  have  chosen  for  himself.  Behind  them  streeled 
sundry  outside  cars  laden  with  neighbors  who  went  to 
all  funerals,  and  would,  in  fact,  go  anywhere  rather  than 
remain  in  Count  Street.  One  of  these  failed  to  round 
Dunphy's  Corner,  but  rejoined  the  procession  on  the  re- 
turn trip. 

The  most  noticeable  thing  in  Adam's  eyes  was  the 
melancholy  splendor  of  his  godfather.  Usually  he  re- 
membered him  at  home  as  raffish  and  unkempt;  not 
so  unkempt  as  Macfadden  but  almost  equally  disrepu- 
table. Adam  was  too  young  to  understand  the  vagaries 
of  a  man  of  temperament,  nor  could  he  know  that 
the  Byron  O'Toole  who  condescended  to  visit  or  even 
lodge  in  Count  Alley  was  not  the  Byron  O'Toole  of  the 
great  world  beyond.  To-day  he  was  clad  in  almost  ir- 
reproachably clean  linen,  shiny,  well-watered  tall  hat, 


162  ADAM  OF  DUBLIN 

black  frock-coat,  black  trousers,  black  patent  leather 
boots  (enclosing  possibly  no  less  black  but  neat  feet),  and 
black  kid  gloves  with  but  moderate  bursts  in  the  thumbs. 
The  only  article  of  clothing  which  Adam  recognized  was 
a  black  bow  tie.  He  had  always  worn  this,  even  when 
without  a  collar.  His  bearing,  too,  matched  his  clothes : 
he  treated  Mrs.  Macfadden,  Father  Innocent,  and  even 
Adam  with  Grandisonian  courtesy;  and  the  undertaker's 
foreman  could  not  look  towards  him  without  raising  his 
hat.  He  believed  the  gentleman  had  come  to  bury  the 
husband  of  an  old  family  servant.  He  venerated  his  noble 
character  and  dreamed  of  largess.  It  was  an  idle  dream. 

Through  O'Connell  Street,  like  a  trickle  of  ink  through 
a  desert,  the  late  Mr.  Malachy  Macfadden,  tailor  of 
Dublin,  passed  on  his  last  progress;  up  the  hill  by  the 
Rotunda,  out  of  Rutland  Square,  through  North  Fred- 
erick Street  and  Blessington  Street,  and  round  to  the 
right  into  Berkeley  Road,  past  the  corner  of  Eccles  Street, 
and  so  on,  the  way  the  reader  knows.  As  it  being  now 
high  noon,  the  shadow  of  the  Mater  Misericordise  Hos- 
pital blackened  the  way,  Adam  fell  a-crying,  and  the 
priest  leaned  forward  to  pat  his  knee  thinking  these  were 
generous  tears;  but  the  boy  was  only  saying  to  himself 
that  had  things  turned  out  less  fortunately  it  might  have 
been  his  own  little  body  jogging  on  to  Glasnevin. 

No,  he  had  no  feeling,  absolutely  none,  for  the  monster 
safely  boxed  at  last,  that  was  bumping  over  the  tram- 
lines in  front  of  them,  across  the  canal  bridge  to  Glas- 
nevin. .  .  .  To  Glasnevin  where  Emily  Robinson 
was.  .  .  and  who  else  that  he  had  known  and  cared 


MR.  MACFADDEN'S  LAST  PROGRESS     163 

for?  .  .  .  Caroline  Brady  .  .  .  was  she  there  or  was 
she  not  ?  .  .  .  Had  he  ceased  to  care  ?  .  .  .  What  did 
it  matter  whether  he  cared  or  not?  .  .  .  Nothing  mat- 
tered but  food  and  drink  and  sleep.  The  sleep  that  was 
not  death. 

He  felt  sick  and  sorry  for  all  dead  people  as  he 
entered  the  cemetery  gates  and  he  walked  behind  the 
coffin  to  the  chapel  and  the  graveside.  But  he  was  only 
sick  at  the  crowded  evidence  of  the  abomination  called 
death,  and  sorry  chiefly  for  himself,  who  too  must  die 
and  be  laid  in  earth  like  this.  As  the  coffin  was  lowered 
away  from  his  sight  and  the  first  clod  of  covering  clay 
thudded  after  it,  he  made  a  last  effort  to  pray  in  his  heart 
for  the  thing  that  had  called  itself  his  father.  But  he 
could  not  think  of  it  as  such  and  the  prayer  would  not 
come.  He  found  himself  pricking  his  ears  to  hear 
Mr.  O'Toole  whisper  to  his  mother  as  he  turned  his 
back  complacently  on  the  grave,  "We're  well  quit  of 
that  fellow." 

Adam's  heart,  thanks  to  Father  Innocent's  entreaty, 
was  free  now  from  all  vengeful  longing  against  the  dead 
man's  peace ;  but  he  had  seen  no  injustice  in  graving  these 
words  on  his  headstone. 


CHAPTER  XVI 
PLEASANT  STREET 

THE  death  of  Mr.  Macfadden  led  to  material  as  well 
as  moral  changes  in  Adam's  life :  perhaps  the  most  notable 
to  a  child  was  the  evacuation  of  the  hated  room  in  which 
his  childhood  had,  with  the  only  alternative  of  the  street, 
been  passed.  To  be  out  of  that  he  was  willing  to  submit 
even  to  the  patronage  of  the  misliked  Mr.  Byron  O'Toole. 
The  latter  became  the  tutelary  genius  of  the  family:  to 
him  they  were  beholden  for  the  means  to  move  to  vastly 
superior  quarters;  and,  much  as  he  despised  his  char- 
acter, Adam  found  his  relations  with  him  far  less  dis- 
agreeable than  with  the  dead  man.  He  had  a  vile  tongue, 
but  Adam  seldom  had  it  turned  upon  himself;  for 
commonly  there  was  some  reason  for  what  he  said  and 
did,  and  unlike  Macfadden,  O'Toole,  unless  suffering 
from  biliousness,  would  listen  to  reason.  Besides,  they 
came  little  in  contact.  In  the  new  lodgings  Adam  was 
given  a  room  to  himself:  the  tiniest  room  he  ever  saw. 
Father  Innocent's  was  palatial  in  comparison;  and  its 
shape  being  under  the  roof,  was  that  of  an  ill-planned 
dog-kennel ;  but  it  held  a  real  if  lop-sided  bed  in  it,  and  it 
was  his  very  own.  None  else  ever  went  near  it;  for  it 
was  accessible  only  by  a  ladder,  and  Mrs.  Macfadden's 
policy  towards  her  son  was  now  one  of  laissez  faire. 
164 


PLEASANT  STREET  165 

What  part  of  the  house  she  lived  in  he  was  not  told 
but  he  knew  that  the  kitchen  lay  in  her  domain  and  that 
he  was  welcome  to  wash  himself  in  the  scullery  every 
morning,  and  to  eat  his  breakfast,  and  a  better  dinner 
than  he  had  ever  had  at  Count  Alley,  with  her  at  the 
kitchen  table.  His  other  meals  she  left  him  to  provide 
for  himself  outside,  but,  on  the  other  hand,  she  never 
asked  him  to  account  for  his  earnings,  nor,  did  Mr. 
O'Toole  call  upon  him  for  monetary  support.  So,  in 
the  dark  and  spidery  recess  under  the  roof,  he  com- 
menced to  lay  up  a  little  hoard.  He  reckoned  out,  with 
the  famous  pencil  bought  at  Gerrard's  and  well  pre- 
served as  were  all  his  few  belongings,  that  by  the  time 
he  was  eleven  he  might,  with  the  aid  of  the  Blessed  Virgin, 
possess  a  whole  golden  sovereign  of  his  own.  He  missed 
the  sales  of  many  papers,  dreaming  of  how  he  would 
spend  it  when  he  had  it. 

The  only  restrictions  laid  down  by  his  mother  were 
that  he  should  enter  and  leave  the  house  precisely  at 
hours  upon  which  they  had  agreed,  never  to  knock  at 
the  hall  door,  but  to  whistle  at  the  area-railings  until 
she  came  to  him,  and  on  no  account  or  pretense  whatever, 
to  linger  on  the  stairs,  but  pass  swiftly  and  silently  as 
possible  from  the  hall  to  his  room,  not  visiting  even 
the  kitchen  but  at  the  appointed  hours. 

Adam  understood  that  these  were  the  terms  on  which 
he  enjoyed  his  delicious  freedom,  and  he  kept  them 
loyally;  for  it  was  natural  that  the  other  denizens  of 
that  seemly  house  should  object  to  a  young  lad  trampling 
up  and  down  stairs  all  day,  and  hammering  away  at  the 


166  ADAM  OF  DUBLIN 

knocker.  He  hardly  ever  heard  any  noise  from  his  eyrie, 
if  he  woke  in  the  night,  except  perhaps  queer  English 
accents  talking  with  mincing  unintelligibility  on  the  stairs. 
Often  there  was  a  piano  going  gaily  on  the  first  floor  as 
he  stole  up  to  bed,  and  more  than  once  he  heard  a  piercing 
voice  in  that  room  call  entreatingly,  "  Play  '  Love's 
Drame,'  Mr.  Moore ;  play  '  Love's  Drame ' ! "  He 
imagined  that  it  was  the  voice  of  a  lady  who,  when  he 
had  opened  the  hall  door  one  day  for  her,  kissed  him 
and  called  him  "a  perfect  little  gentleman  love,"  an 
episode  the  flavor  of  which  he  enjoyed  until  he  remem- 
bered that  the  last  person  who  had  kissed  him  was  Caro- 
line Brady,  and  she  would  never  kiss  him  any  more. 
What  was  the  use  of  accumulating  wealth  when  you  had 
to  die  in  the  end  ?  And  what  a  terrible  thing  was  kissing 
when  you  kept  that  end  in  view !  He  wished  he  could  be 
a  saint,  like  Father  Innocent,  or  else  that  after  all  he 
had  died  in  the  hospital,  before  he  knew  how  delicious 
life  could  be,  even  so  near  the  Pro-Cathedral  as  Pleasant 
Street,  and  how  desolate  was  Glasnevin,  to  say  nothing  of 
hell! 

On  Sundays  Adam  saw  more  of  his  mother  than  on 
other  days,  for  they  went  to  half-past  eleven  mass  to- 
gether, as  they  had  done  in  his  father's  lifetime;  only  then 
he  was  often  sent  on  in  front  to  the  Pro-Cathedral,  or  left 
behind  in  it,  whereas  now  she  never  failed  to  go  out  and 
return  with  him,  carrying  a  large  Missal,  to  that  mighty 
agreeable  house,  No.  7  Pleasant  Street.  He  had  a  pride 
in  standing  by  her  on  the  steps,  holding  the  great  Missal 
for  her,  while  she  fumbled  her  placket  looking  for  the 


PLEASANT  STREET  167 

latchkey  which  presently  came  out  in  her  gloved  hand 
to  open  the  door  just  as  if  the  house  really  belonged  to 
her.  Now  that  Macfadden  was  dead,  she  dressed  herself 
so  decently,  especially  on  Sundays,  that  he  thought  she 
really  might  pass  for  the  landlady  instead  of  being  merely 
the  housekeeper.  He  wished  Father  Innocent  would 
come  and  see  them  there,  it  was  such  a  change  from 
Count  Alley,  and  he  dreamed  of  persuading  the  little 
priest  to  climb  the  ladder  to  his  own  retreat,  which  he 
promised  himself  the  glory  of  exhibiting  by  the  light  of  a 
bull's  eye  lantern  bought  at  Lawrence's,  for  the  further 
pursuit  of  literature. 

Not  that  he  possessed  a  library,  but  he  read  every 
week  The  Irish  Homestead,  which  he  bought  at  first  for 
its  agreeable  name,  and  thinking  that  it  treated  of  life 
in  typical  Irish  residences  such  as  7  Pleasant  Street. 
Then  he  took  an  interest  in  it  because  it  told  him  unheard 
of  ways  of  churning  butter,  milking  cows,  and  feeding 
pigs;  and  he  remembered  sister  at  the  hospital  telling 
him  how,  if  geese  were  made  to  co-operate,  they  would 
in  time  lay  golden  eggs.  He  wondered  if  his  mother 
would  allow  him  to  keep  a  couple  of  geese  up  in  his 
room,  his  very  own  room,  and  bring  them  'down  every 
morning,  before  any  one  was  about,  to  the  scullery  to 
have  a  swim  like  their  kind  in  Stephen's  Green.  Some 
of  the  people  who  wrote  to  the  Homestead  seemed  to 
maintain  that  if  you  kept  a  goose  quite  quiet,  so  that 
it  concentrated  its  mind,  it  laid  better  eggs.  His  room 
was  just  the  place  for  an  experiment  of  that  sort,  so 
he  summoned  up  courage  and  sent  a  postal  order  to  a 


168  ADAM  OF  DUBLIN 

lady  in  Cork  who  advertised  geese  for  sale.  He  thought 
one  would  be  enough  to  start  co-operating  with,  and 
that  if  he  took  his  mother  by  surprise,  presenting  her 
with  a  real  egg,  even  though  not  of  gold,  she  would 
not  make  a  fuss;  it  being  understood  that  none  but 
himself  need  ever  see  or  hear  of  the  goose,  once  he  had 
got  it  safely  up  the  ladder.  But  it  was  he  who  was 
surprised  when  it  arrived  in  a  brown  paper  parcel,  and 
showing  no  sign  of  interest  in  co-operation.  .  .  .  Tears 
stood  in  his  eye,  for  here  was  the  greater  part  of  his 
small  capital  in  danger,  if  not  lost. 

Luckily  the  postman  delivered  the  ill-starred  bird  into 
his  own  hands,  and  he  was  able  to  convey  it  to  his 
mountain  fastness  without  notice.  At  first  he  was  un- 
willing to  believe  it  irrevocably  dead,  and  placed  it 
between  the  blankets  of  his  still  warm  bed  in  the  hope 
of  reviving  it.  He  left  it  there  while  he  went  out  and 
studied  the  appearance  of  other  geese  in  the  neighboring 
poulterers'.  His  deductions  were  fatal  to  his  hopes. 
When  he  returned  he  found  a  cat  mewing  on  the  top 
rung  of  his  ladder,  unable  to  proceed  farther  because 
he  had  fastened  the  door,  or  to  descend  because  of  an 
attack  of  nerves. 

He  lifted  her  down,  and  whispered  to  her  to  go  away, 
but  she  only  purred  and  rubbed  herself  against  his  legs, 
confident  that  he  would  not  refuse  her  his  hospitality. 
Seeing  that  he  must  either  entertain  her  with  a  good 
grace  or  submit  to  be  blackmailed,  he  invited  her  up  the 
ladder,  and  there  in  the  darkness,  feebly  illuminated  by 
the  bull's  eye  lantern,  and  snowed  under  by  the  feathers 


PLEASANT  STREET  169 

which  Adam  plucked  unhandily  from  the  corpse,  he  and 
the  cat  started  to  share  the  goose.  For  three  days  this 
banquet  went  on  intermittently.  Then  the  cat  lost  interest 
and  came  no  more,  disappearing  as  mysteriously  as  it  had 
come  upon  the  scene.  About  a  week  later,  hearing  the 
lady  on  the  first  floor  question  his  mother  about  the 
drains,  he  packed  the  remains  and  a  fair  share  of  the 
plumage  of  the  goose  back  in  the  brown  paper  and  threw 
the  parcel  over  Butt  Bridge  into  the  water  by  the  Bristol 
boat,  where  not  many  months  before  he  had  thought  to 
throw  himself.  Thus  went  seven  and  sixpence:  seven 
and  eightpence  halfpenny,  counting  the  postal  order  and 
the  stamp  and  notepaper.  And  he  felt  none  the  better 
for  it ;  for  even  a  healthy,  hungry  lad  cannot  stuff  himself 
with  raw  gooseflesh  for  ten  days  on  end,  and  escape  all 
reproof  from  Dame  Nature. 

For  a  little  while  he  was  as  bilious  as  Mr.  O'Toole 
commonly  looked,  and  he  developed  a  scrupulosity  of 
conscience  that  was  new  to  him.  He  confessed  the 
adventure  of  the  goose  to  Father  Innocent,  under  the 
headings  of  both  gluttony  and  deceit.  He  asked  if  he 
were  bound  to  tell  his  mother  about  it.  The  priest  told 
him  that  it  was  a  difficult  point,  but  he  took  upon  himself 
the  responsibility  of  saying  that,  as  there  was  no  lie 
to  be  retracted,  small  good  could  be  gained  by  saying 
anything  more  about  it.  He  proceeded  forthwith  to  have 
Adam  confirmed,  and  the  Lord  Bishop  of  Canea  ex- 
pressed himself  as  so  struck  by  the  young  catechumen's 
intelligence  that  the  little  priest  announced  that  he  would 
now  prepare  him  for  his  first  Holy  Communion. 


170  ADAM  OF  DUBLIN 

Although  these  were  familiar  words  in  Adam's  ears 
they  rang  with  a  new  vibrancy  when  applied  to  the 
great  act  looming  up  in  his  own  immediate  future.  So 
far,  despite  his  glib  verbal  acquaintance  with  elementary 
theology,  his  real  religion  had  been  crude  Mariolatry, 
and  he  was  interested  in  the  Second  Person  of  the  Trinity 
only  as  being  Mary's  son.  Now  he  commenced  to  think 
of  Jesus  not  only  as  true  God  but  as  true  Man:  that  is 
to  say,  He  had  in  Him  something  in  common  even  with 
the  late  Malachy  Macfadden.  As  a  result,  one  Sunday 
morning  after  mass,  having  left  his  mother  'dutifully 
at  her  door,  he  announced  his  desire  to  be  excused  from 
dinner  (to  which  as  Mr.  O'Toole  had  important  business 
to  discuss  with  her,  she  the  more  readily  consented),  and 
forthwith  turned  back  towards  Nelson's  Pillar  and  took 
the  tram  for  Glasnevin.  There  he  knelt  him  down  in  the 
wet  grass  about  the  place  where  he  supposed  his  father's 
bones  to  rest,  and  long  and  earnestly  prayed  for  him,  not 
even  now  as  his  father,  but  as  one  who  had  a  common 
father  with  him  and  the  Son  of  Mary.  He  felt  as  surely 
as  he  felt  the  cold  on  his  knees  that,  despite  the  hatred 
which,  by  the  devil's  artifice,  had  severed  them,  he  and 
the  dead  man  were  members  of  one  another;  and  he 
strove  to  wish  him  quick  and  well  again  that  he  might 
seek  out  a  way  of  reconciliation.  He  asked  also 
the  soul  of  Emily  Robinson,  surely  by  this  time 
safe  in  heaven,  to  think  of  some  good  to  say  for 
Macfadden.  And  he  ended  by  saying  in  a  waking 
dream,  "  Caroline  Brady,  if  you're  dead,  will  you 
too  pray  for  him  ? "  It  did  not  occur  to  him 


PLEASANT  STREET  171 

that  the  living  Caroline  Brady's  prayers  could  have  any 
value. 

With  an  exaltation  that  turned  the  tram  into  a  fiery 
chariot  he  returned  home,  to  encounter  Father  Innocent 
at  the  place  where  Pleasant  Street  runs  into  Marlborough 
Street.  "  What  makes  you  so  happy?  "  the  priest  asked, 
scanning  him  closely.  "  Has  any  one  been  telling  you 
anything  ?  Where  have  you  had  your  dinner  ?  " 

Adam  made  no  secret  of  his  doings  at  the  hour  when 
the  rest  of  the  world  was  rilling  its  stomach.  He  was 
glad  that  the  priest  should  understand  that  he  found 
happiness  in  other  things  beside  geese.  "  That's  a  dotey 
boy,"  said  the  priest  enthusiastically,  stroking  the  back 
of  his  neck.  "  How  I  wish  God  would  spare  me  to  see 
you  a  priest,  the  sort  of  priest  I'd  have  been  myself  if 
God  had  given  me  your  head  and  heart." 

"D'ye  think  I  could  ever  be  a  priest?"  Adam  blurted 
awestricken  at  his  own  potential  piety. 

"  I  think  you  could,"  answered  Father  Innocent,  "  and 
what's  more,  I  think  you  will.  D'ye  remember  the  first 
day  you  ever  came  to  me  for  instruction,  I  told  you  the 
day  you  made  your  first  Holy  Communion  would  be 
the  happiest  of  your  life:  the  very  happiest  day  of  all 
the  long  days  that  might  lie  before  you  ?  " 

"  Indeed  I  do,  father,"  said  Adam.  "  I  remember  it 
well." 

"Well,"  declared  the  priest,  beaming  with  his  own 
happiness,  "  this  day  week,  please  God,  you  will  make 
your  own,  and  mark  my  words  you  will  find  it  all  come 
true  that  I  said  to  you."  He  seemed  bubbling  over  with 


472  ADAM  OF  DUBLIN 

the  desire  to  enlarge  upon  the  happiness  of  the  first  com- 
munion day,  but  broke  off,  "Go  home  now  to  your 
mother,  my  dotey  boy,  and  tell  her  with  my  compliments, 
she  must  give  you  a  good  meal  and  that  before  she 
attends  to  anything  else  in  the  house  or  out  of  it."  He 
shook  his  hand  warmly  and  hurried  off  on  the  little  tired 
feet  that  grew  ever  more  difficult  to  urge  to  their  jour- 
ney's end.  In  the  kitchen  Mr.  O'Toole,  as  well  as  his 
mother,  received  him  with  marked  cordiality.  "  I  can 
see  that  lad  of  yours  has  been  up  to  no  good,"  said  his 
godfather  archly,  "  and  now  he  comes  back  like  the  prodi- 
gal son,  to  eat  your  fatted  calves." 

Adam  looked  straight  at  his  godfather,  noticing  with 
unaccountable  satisfaction  that  the  man  really  did  have 
a  very  gentlemanly  appearance  now  that  he  always  wore 
a  collar  and  pretty  good  clothes.  "  Father  Innocent 
said  I  was  to  ask  mother  for  a  good  meal  with  his 
compliments." 

"Oh,  he  said  that,  did  he?"  returned  Mr.  O'Toole 
affably,  and  exchanged  glances  with  the  widow,  as  Adam 
had  often  seen  them  do  in  Macfadden's  lifetime,  but 
they  were  openly  merry  now.  Nevertheless  the 
widow  hastened  at  once  to  honor  the  priest's  demand. 
Tea,  bread  and  butter  and  hard-boiled  eggs  were 
put  before  Adam  on  a  clean  napkin,  with  surprising 
celerity. 

Mr.  O'Toole  produced  a  cigar  from  the  inside  of  his 
pocket  handkerchief,  bit  off  the  end  with  aristocratic 
languor,  and  lit  it  with  a  wax  vesta.  "  Did  Father 
Feeley  say  anything  about  anything  else  to  you?"  he 


PLEASANT  STREET  173 

asked,  with  the  air  of  a  man  who  would  have  you  think 
he  is  just  making  conversation. 

Adam  blushed  and  answered  with  his  mouth  full  of 
hot  egg,  "  He  said  he  was  sure  I'd  make  a  good  priest." 

Mr.  Byron  O'Toole  glanced  again  at  the  widow  and 
puffed  out  an  impressive  column  of  smoke,  which  he 
watched  as  though  expecting  a  genie  to  emerge  from  it. 
"  That's  all  cod,"  said  he. 

Adam  was  justifiably  offended,  but  he  held  his  tongue. 
His  godfather  was  not  the  sort  of  man  to  understand 
the  emotions  he  had  felt  to-day.  Apart  from  that  he 
was  keener  now  on  his  tea  and  eggs  than  anything  else. 
And  at  no  time  was  the  atmosphere  at  Pleasant  Street, 
though  so  near  the  Pro-Cathedral,  conducive  to  a  spiritual 
train  of  thought.  It  was  a  grand  thing  to  be  a  priest 
surely,  but  it  was  also  very  agreeable  to  live  in  Pleasant 
Street. 


CHAPTER  XVII 
THE  HAPPIEST  DAY 

IF  happiness  be  a  state  of  joyful  expectation,  the  day  of 
Adam's  first  communion  was,  as  yet,  the  happiest  of  his 
life.  It  opened  and  closed  in  exultation  that  carried 
him  far  from  the  trodden  ground  round  Pleasant  Street, 
to  which  his  physical  being  was  on  that  day,  as  most 
others,  confined.  He  went  no  farther  than  Gardiner's 
Street,  whither  Father  Innocent  brought  him  in  the 
afternoon  that  followed  the  morning's  dream  interview 
with  a  God  as  childish  as  himself.  As  the  dream  faded 
a  little  towards  the  commoner  thoughts  of  life,  he  found 
himself  expecting  to  be  taken,  in  fulfilment  of  the  ancient 
promise,  to  the  Zoo.  Yet  he  did  not  allow  himself  to 
be  depressed  by  the  change  of  plan;  for  he  saw  by 
the  priest's  face  (to  say  nothing  of  hints  falling  from 
him  in  the  course  of  several  days'  spiritual  instruction), 
that  truly  remarkable  things  were  about  to  happen.  He 
had  felt  so  uncommonly  good  all  the  morning,  and  looked 
so  holy  in  the  glimpses  he  caught  of  himself  in  the 
many  mirrors  at  Pleasant  Street,  he  wondered  if  his 
sanctity  were  sufficiently  established  in  Father  Innocent's 
eyes  that  he  had  made  interest  with  Father  Muldoon  to 
enable  him  to  assist  at  the  performance  of  a  miracle. 
He  recalled  that  some  beatific  gentleman  in  whom  sister 
i74 


THE  HAPPIEST  DAY  175 

had  striven  to  interest  him  was  allowed  to  see  a 
miracle  on  his  first  communion  day.  Turning  into 
Mount  joy  Square,  the  priest  was  edified  by  his  rapt 
gaze,  not  knowing  that  he  was  weighing  the  joy 
of  seeing  a  miracle  against  that  of  seeing  a  rhi- 
noceros. 

Arrived  face  to  face  with  the  Presbytery  bell,  Father 
Innocent  cast  a  hasty  glance  over  his  young  charge, 
noticed  regretfully  that  he  looked  again  like  other  boys, 
and  exhorted  him  to  blow  his  nose  and  answer  as  briefly 
as  respect  allowed  the  questions  that  might  be  put  to 
him  inside.  Then  he  rang,  and  forthwith  they  were  ad- 
mitted to  the  apartment  Adam  already  knew  to  be  the 
antechamber  to  Jehovah's  throne-room.  There  sat  the 
demi-god,  Father  Muldoon,  and  another  somewhat 
younger  priest,  whose  face  was  familiar  to  him,  though 
he  did  not  know  his  name. 

This  priest  held  in  his  left  hand  a  letter,  the  envelope 
of  which  appeared  to  be  in  the  possession  of  Father 
Muldoon.  Adam  noticed  that  it  had  a  queer  stamp, 
and  wondered  if  it  came  from  that  part  of  Father  Mul- 
doon's  dominions  where  the  people  walked  upon  their 
heads.  Perhaps  he  was  about  to  be  shown  one  or 
more  of  these  people  now,  that  would  be  in  a  sense  a 
miracle  .  .  .  but  in  the  Zoo  he  might  have  seen  far 
greater  oddities.  He  found  the  strange  priest  studying 
him  while  some  formula  of  introduction  was  gone 
through.  He  was  at  once  attracted  and  perturbed  by 
him,  his  features  weary  as  Father  Innocent's  but  more 
clearly  cut  and  intellectual,  brownish  black,  peering  eyes, 


176  ADAM  OF  DUBLIN 

a  markedly  oval  face,  and  a  smile  flickering  between 
kindliness  and  ingenuous,  priestly  guile.  He  spoke  little 
and  rather  too  quickly,  for  Adam's  ear,  from  a  novel 
vocabulary.  His  name  was  Tuite. 

It  was  the  positive  Father  Muldoon  who  did  the 
talking : — 

"Adam  Macfadden,"  said  he,  with  a  fluency  of  an 
advocate  who  has  read  his  brief.  "  It  is  a  particular 
pleasure  to  me  to  see  you  here  again  in  this  room  and 
to  learn  from  your  good  friend,  Father  Feeley,  that  my 
little  effort  to  help  you  has  not  been  thrown  away. 
But,  of  course,  that  pleasure  is  multiplied  a  thousand- 
fold when  I  think  of  you  as  having  made  to-day  your 
first  Holy  Communion.  On  such  a  day  we  know  from 
the  universal  experience  of  all  who  have  ever  held  the 
Catholic  faith  that  we  realize  in  its  full  immensity  for 
the  first  time  the  ineffable  goodness  of  God  Almighty. 
That  is  to  say,  we  know  as  much  about  it  as  we  are  ever 
likely  to  know  in  this  vale  of  tears  and  that  is,  of  course, 
very  little." 

Here  he  paused  more  from  force  of  habit  than  for 
any  other  reason. 

"  This  happiness  I  speak  of  is,  of  course,  as  Father 
Feeley  I  am  sure  has  explained  to  you,  a  purely  spiritual 
happiness  and  much  as  I  can  see  that  you  feel  it,  you 
would,  as  a  good  Catholic,  feel  it  not  a  whit  the  less 
if  you  were  starving,  or  had  toothache,  or  were  wasting 
away  from  some  terrible  disease,  such  as  " — he  paused 
to  find  a  word  with  the  right  cadence,  and  chose — 
"  influenza."  Father  Tuite's  eyebrows  heaved,  but  Father 


THE  HAPPIEST  DAY  177 

Innocent  sighed,  "  My  poor  father  died  of  something 
like  it." 

Father  Muldoon  pursued.  "  This  happiness,  which  is 
the  reflection  in  our  souls  of  God's  goodness,  is  inde- 
pendent of  all  the  things  of  this  world,  and  is  the 
premonition  and  promise  of  that  happiness  which,  if  we 
persevere  in  our  faith,  through  sunshine  and  storm,  we 
may  hope  one  day  to  feel  in  the  actual  presence  of  God 
Himself.  And,  I  need  not  add,  for  ever  and  ever  after- 
wards." 

He  paused  forensically  as  before. 

"  But  besides  this  great  happiness  which  is  of  heaven 
and  not  of  earth,  there  is  a  minor  happiness  which, 
though  it  be  of  the  earth,  can  only  be  enjoyed  with  any 
profit  and  any  propriety  by  those  whose  thoughts  are 
fixed  on  heaven.  And,  by  a  fortunate  coincidence,  I  am 
in  a  position  to  tell  you  on  this  day,  so  happy  in  its 
heavenly  sense,  that  you  also  have  much  reason  to  feel 
happy,  to  rejoice  even  in  a  purely  temporal  and  worldly 
sense."  Here  he  made  a  very  long  and  effective  pause, 
it  seemed  to  Adam  half  an  hour,  and  was  perhaps, 
nearly  a  minute.  "  I  must  not  tell  you  too  much,  but  I 
may  tell  you  this.  A  certain  sum  of  money  has  been 
remitted  to  ...  to  " — he  exchanged  glances  with  Father 
Innocent — "  to  us,  from  a  kind  friend  in  a  remote  part 
of  the  world,  with  instructions  that  it  should  be  spent 
on  your  education  and  general  upbringing.  This  would 
involve  my  acting  in  future,  at  all  events  for  the  present, 
in  loco  parentis,  that  is  to  say,  as  if  I  were  your  father. 
And  I  have  obtained  through  Father  Feeley's  good 


178  ADAM  OF  DUBLIN 

offices,  your  mother's  consent  to  this."  He  here  paused 
and  looked  inquiringly  at  Father  Tuite,  who  smiled  and 
nodded.  He  then  glanced  at  Father  Feeley,  and  went 
on,  "For  the  present  Father  Feeley  has  kindly  con- 
sented to  act  for  me  in  the  matter  of  your  general 
bringing  up  and  guardianship,  but,  with  regard  to  your 
education,  he  agrees  with  me  that  we  cannot  do  better, 
in  your  own  interests,  than  to  hand  you  over  to  Father 
Tuite  here,  who,  as  you  must  certainly  be  aware,  is 
rector  of  the  famous  college  of  Belvedere,  where  the 
great  man  whose  papers  you  earn  your  bread  by  selling, 
was  educated,  as  well  as  ever  so  many  other  celebrated 
people  whose  careers  you  will  do  well  to  study  in  the 
college  magazine."  Here  his  tone  became  godlike.  "  I 
was  there  myself  more  than  forty  years  ago,  so 
perhaps  you  will  be  here,  where  I  am  now,  forty  years 
hence." 

"  Amen,"  said  Father  Innocent  absentmindedly.  All 
the  three  priests  exchanged  glances  and  smiled.  Father 
Innocent  was  much  affected.  The  Jesuits  swapped  anec- 
dotes about  Father  Tom  and  Father  Edward  Kelly. 
Adam  pinched  himself  and  tried  to  make  up  his  mind 
whether  he  was  living  now  or  forty  years  hence  or  when. 
The  salient  point  was  that  he  was  a  millionaire,  or  at 
least  a  gentleman  of  means.  His  hand  felt  for  Father 
Innocent's.  He  had  no  idea  that  his  first  communion-day 
was  going  to  be  as  happy  as  this.  Momentarily  he  pre- 
ferred Father  Muldoon  to  a  rhinoceros,  and  yet  he  felt 
that  he  was  not  quite  as  happy  as  he  ought  to  have  been. 
It  seemed  that  he  would  have  to  give  up  his  Arcadian 


THE  HAPPIEST  DAY  179 

Alsatia  in  Pleasant  Street.  He  heard  Father  Tuite  ad- 
dressing him. 

"  All  that  being  said  so  clearly  by  Father  Provincial, 
you  understand,  Adam,  don't  you,"  said  Father  Tuite, 
speaking  perhaps  quicker  than  it  is  wise  to  speak  to 
children.  "  You  understand  that  you  will  be  moving  in 
quite  a  different  sphere  from  that  to  which  you  have 
been  accustomed.  In  the  school  over  which  I  have  the 
honor  to  rule,  you  will  be  associated  with  boys  who 
are  not  fnferior,  socially,  perhaps,  to  any  in  Dublin. 
It  has  been  your  misfortune,  speaking  in,  I  fear,  a 
worldly  sense,  to  have  been  brought  up  so  far,  amidst 
rude  and  rough  and  uncleanly  surroundings.  All  that 
must  now  be  put  right  away  for  ever,  or  for  so  long  as 
I  am  to  be  held  responsible  for  your  education.  I  know 
already  from  what  Father  Feeley  has  told  me  that  you 
will  be  a  credit  to  Belvedere  on  the  religious,  on  the 
moral  side,  but  it  is  my  duty  to  see  that  you  are  also 
a  credit  to  the  school  on  the  worldly  side.  You  must, 
in  short,  learn  to  behave  like  a  gentleman.  .  .  ."  He 
hesitated  and  blushed  as  though  he  had  caught  himself 
uttering  an  absurdity.  "You  will  not  misunderstand 
what  I  mean  by  a  gentleman  ?  " 

"No,  sir,"  said  Adam  promptly.  "Father  Innocent 
Feeley  is  a  gentleman." 

The  little  priest  turned  scarlet  and  Adam  was  startled 
to  hear  him  groan.  "  However  could  you  say  that  ? 
you've  disgraced  us  both  now  surely." 

Father  Muldoon,  too,  sniffed  discouragingly,  but 
Father  Tuite  answered,  with  a  smile  that  was  blithe, 


i8o  ADAM  OF  DUBLIN 

"  Precisely,  Adam.     I  am  glad  to  see  that  you  under- 
stand so  perfectly  what  I  mean." 

And  so  the  interview  ended,  and  Adam  walked  back 
to  Pleasant  Street  on  air,  praising  the  Trinity  and  Mary 
ever  Virgin  and  Holy  Joseph  and  Michael  the  Archangel, 
and  above  all,  Father  Innocent  Feeley,  who  represented 
them  on  earth,  for  what  was  certainly  the  happiest 
day  in  his  life,  surpassing  even  that  on  which  he  kissed 
Caroline  Brady  in  Dalkey  Tunnel,  for  to-night  he  could 
lay  him  cozily  down  with  the  confidence  that  the  angels 
were  on  his  side. 


CHAPTER  XVIII 
THE  DAYS  THAT  FOLLOWED 

THE  days  that  followed  the  happiest  of  Adam's  life 
were  not  altogether  what  he  expected;  they  had  their 
merits,  but  they  were  disappointing;  for,  even  as  Mr. 
O'Toole  with  Fan  Tweedy,  he  had  expected  too  much. 
It  seemed  to  him  that  no  earthly  happiness  really  sur- 
passed that  of  dwelling  amidst  the  rafters  of  7  Pleasant 
Street  and  being  beyond  any  other  boy  he  knew  his 
own  master.  To  be  a  man  of  property  he  found  had 
duties  which  went  far  to  outweigh  its  advantages.  It 
is  true  it  brought  a  certain  accession  of  bodily  comfort. 
He  was  demonstrably  better  lodged  and  better  nourished, 
but  he  had  been  content  with  his  lodging  and  food  at 
Pleasant  Street,  and  the  material  gain  did  not  compensate 
for  the  spiritual  loss.  The  pleasure  he  derived  from  his 
removal  to  the  second  floor  of  3  St.  George's  Place,  ad- 
joining the  church  of  that  name,  was  pure  snobbery; 
he  was  only  reconciled  to  the  change  by  the  thought  that 
he  was  now  a  gentleman  and  must  be  prepared  to  accept 
the  limitations  of  that  state  of  life. 

The  worst  defect  of  his  new  condition  was  the  virtual 
disappearance  of  his  freedom.    He  was  put  in  the  charge 
of  the  lady  who  owned  the  house :  she  called  it  an  apart- 
ment house  for  gentlemen,  and  with  her  close  cropped 
181 


i82  ADAM  OF  DUBLIN 

hair,  simplicity  of  costume,  severity  of  feature,  harsh- 
ness of  voice,  and  altitude  of  outlook,  she  was  to  all 
intents  and  purposes  a  gentleman  herself.  Her  name 
was  Elizabeth  Gannon.  She  was  assisted  in  the  work 
of  the  house  by  the  ugliest  and  cleanest  servant  maid 
Adam  had  ever  seen;  he  thought  it  a  pity  she  should 
call  attention  to  her  plainness  by  putting  so  bright  a 
polish  on  it:  her  face  reminded  him  of  the  beeswaxed 
floor  in  the  refectory  at  Bray — you  felt  it  was  asking 
to  be  walked  on.  Miss  Gannon,  as  owner  of  house  and 
maid,  evidently  shared  this  impression.  The  maid's  name 
was  Attracta.  Adam  supposed  that  she  was  so  called 
because  she  worked  like  a  traction  engine,  harder  even 
than  Miss  Gannon  but  not  such  long  hours ;  for  the  latter 
appeared  never  to  rest.  She  came  in  at  three  o'clock  one 
morning  by  St.  George's  Bells  to  blow  out  his  candle  by 
which  he  was  reading  in  bed.  But  that  staunch  old 
friend  the  bull's  eye  lantern  baffled  her  researches.  It 
did  not  escape  her  eyes  that  he  possessed  such  a  foolish 
toy,  but  far  was  it  from  entering  her  male  and  rigid 
imagination  that  he  lit  it  in  the  small  hours  to  study  the 
poetry  of  Mr.  Keats. 

Mr.  Keats,  as  Adam  had  learned  at  Belvedere,  was 
the  greatest  living  Irish  poet.  He  was  not  so  good  as 
Davis,  nor  of  course  the  immortal  Moore,  But  he  was 
as  good  as  any  one  now  alive.  Adam  had  at  first 
understood  that  his  name  was  Yeats,  but  the  bookseller 
to  whom  he  applied,  a  gentleman  with  authoritative 
red  whiskers,  smiled  in  fatherly  reproachfulness,  "  There 
is  no  such  author,  unless  you  want  Yeats's  History  of 


THE  DAYS  THAT  FOLLOWED  183 

Commerce,  price  five  shillings,  the  only  poet  with  a  name 
like  that  is  Keats.  I  can  do  you  his  complete  works  for 
a  shilling  or  choice  selection  eight  pence."  Adam  had 
no  hesitation  in  taking  the  larger  quantity  at  the  smaller 
price.  It  was  a  stunted,  blue  volume,  with  a  pleasantly 
decorated  back  and  three  hundred  and  sixty  pages  which 
he  read  conscientiously  from  the  first  until  the  last.  But 
he  had  left  Belvedere  before  reaching  this  Ultimate 
Thule. 

It  must  not  be  supposed  that  the  perusal  of  Keats  or 
Yeats  was  the  first  step  to  Parnassus  at  the  Jesuit  col- 
lege. Even  such  excursions  into  hagiology  as  the  Eve 
of  St.  Agnes  were  not  made  at  the  Preparatory  School, 
in  the  lowest  class  of  which  Adam  made  his  academical 
debut.  He  was  nearly  ten  years  old,  but  Father  Tuite 
very  sensibly  made  him  begin  at  the  beginning.  At  the 
end  of  his  first  term  he  romped  home  first  in  the  class 
in  every  subject,  and  the  master  reported  that  it  was 
fair  neither  to  himself  nor  the  others  to  keep  him  there. 
So  after  Christmas  he  was  promoted  to  the  second  class, 
which  was  presided  over  by  Mr.  Flood,  S.J.  It  was 
he  who  hinted  at  the  existence  of  poets  other  than  the 
authors  of  The  Fall  of  D'Assas  and  The  Loss  of  the 
Royal  George,  and  he  had  in  fact  mentioned  both  Keats 
and  Yeats,  and  left  the  same  sort  of  impression  on  the 
brains  of  his  audience  as  if  he  had  said  Box  and  Cox. 

Mr.  Flood  himself  merely  intended  to  air  his  knowl- 
edge, and  never  dreamed  that  his  pupils  would  pay  the 
smallest  attention  to  what  he  said,  unless  given  out 
line  by  line  as  something  to  be  learned  by  heart  under 


184  ADAM  OF  DUBLIN 

threat  of  the  ferrule,  and  not  a  great  deal  then.  But 
Mr.  Flood  was  truly  interested  in  poetry  though  he  valued 
it  chiefly  for  its  rhetorical  quality.  A  big  man  with  a 
sonorous  voice,  he  was  a  born  elocutionist  and  longed 
for  the  sacred  hour  when  he  might  hear  himself  thunder 
from  the  pulpit.  Meanwhile  on  those  days  when  the 
world  went  well  with  him,  he  treated  his  class  to  such 
brief,  happily  applied  excerpts  from  Shakespeare,  as 
"Friends,  Romans,  Countrymen!  lend  me  your  ears." 
"Tell  me,  Terence  O'Brien,  how  would  you  say  'O 
Table '  in  Latin !  or  '  I'll  put  a  girdle  round  the  world 
in  forty  minutes/  Take  your  slate,  Sullivan,  and  tell  me 
how  many  miles  a  minute  that  would  be  if  the  circum- 
ference of  the  globe  were  forty  miles,  remembering,  of 
course,  that  it's  a  lot  more  than  that,"  or  "  Not  all  the 
perfumes  of  Arabia,  Patsy  Scully,  will  take  the  ink  off 
your  hands  if  you  hold  your  pen  like  that." 

There  were  days  when  Mr.  Flood  roared  and  thumped 
and  threatened  the  innocent  and  guilty  alike  with  his 
ferrule ;  but  even  his  rages  were  a  form  of  rhetoric,  and 
Adam  saw  there  was  no  harm  in  him.  Boys  who  were 
willing  to  learn  he  did  his  best  to  teach,  and  Adam  who, 
when  not  listening  to  what  he  said,  could  show  that 
he  was  thinking  over  something  that  had  previously 
been  uttered  was  his  favorite  pupil.  At  the  summer 
vacation  he  carried  round  to  St.  George's  Place  the 
nucleus  of  a  small  library :  the  English  prize  which  was 
Robinson  Crusoe  in  French,  the  French  prize,  which  was 
Michel  Strogoff  in  English,  and  the  prize  for  Christian 
doctrine,  which  was  Aviation  for  Young  Catholics,  in 


THE  DAYS  THAT  FOLLOWED  185 

Messrs.  Billing  and  Cohen's  admirable  Science  Without 
Tears  Series.  The  information  contained  in  this  did  not 
carry  one  far  in  the  empyrean  but  it  sufficed  to  convince 
Adam  that  for  all  ordinary  purposes  of  locomotion  it  was, 
if  only  for  reasons  of  economy,  better  for  the  present 
to  take  the  tram.  No  doubt  the  day  would  come  when 
he  might  stable  his  aeroplane  at  the  rear  of  St.  George's 
Place  and  fly  down  occasionally  to  Bray  to  hear  the  band 
play  on  the  esplanade.  He  had  never  seen  a  flying  ma- 
chine, and  it  figured  in  his  mind  as  an  ingenious  toy,  not 
a  solid  triumph  of  the  engineer  such  as  the  Bristol  steamer 
or  the  Waterford  Restaurant  Train.  Robinson  Crusoe 
in  French  resisted  his  efforts  to  read  it,  for  the  Abbe 
Pincenez  who  had  adapted  it  for  the  use  of  his  pupils 
some  eighty  years  since,  represented  the  good  Robinson 
as  consoling  his  exile  not  with  the  Bible,  but  Bossuet's 
Oraisons  Funebres.  Michel  Strogoff  in  English  was  a 
little  better,  but  gave  Adam  a  gloomy  impression  of  the 
Russian  character,  nor  could  he  understand  the  hero  being 
on  such  good  terms  with  the  police.  His  three  prizes 
appeared  to  him  as  prizes  to  be  desirable,  but  as  books  to 
be  poor  things — the  only  one  he  took  at  all  seriously  was 
the  first.  When  Mr.  Flood  congratulated  him  on  the 
prospect  of  so  much  to  occupy  his  mind  during  the  sum- 
mer holidays,  Adam  mentioned  that  he  was  reading 
Keats. 

The  young  but  large  Jesuit  stared  at  him.  "  Whatever 
put  such  an  idea  into  your  head?  " 

"Didn't  you  tell  us,  sir,"  Adam  protested,  "that  he 
was  a  great  Irish  poet?" 


i86  ADAM  OF  DUBLIN 

"  Keats  an  Irish  poet,  is  it  ? "  roared  Mr.  Flood  de- 
risively, "  he  was  an  English  cockney  born  and  bred.  I 
don't  suppose  he  knew  whether  Ireland  was  north,  south, 
east,  or  west.  The  Irish  poet  I  mentioned  of  that  name, 
I  mean  of  the  name  you  thought  was  that,  was  Mr.  W. 
B.  Yeats.  He's  a  very  nice  writer  indeed,  author  of  a 
beautiful  poem  called  "  Innisf ree,"  though  rather  tame 
as  recitation.  But  at  your  age  you're  much  too  young 
to  read  either  Yeats  or  Keats  except  in  selected  passages. 
Not  that  it  really  matters  so  long  as  you're  too  young 
to  understand.  Browning  is  a  much  better  poet  for 
boys,  'How  we  brought  the  Good  News,'  and  'A 
Legend  of  Ratisbon.'  You  can't  do  better  than  Browning 
and  Eliza  Cooke.  But  she's  comic,  remember  that.  You 
mustn't  confuse  her  with  Mrs.  Hemans,  the  way  you've 
confused  Keats  with  Yeats.  If  you  do  that  people  will 
laugh  at  you.  Good-by." 

Adam  was  mortified  to  learn  of  his  mistake  about 
Keats,  though  indeed  he  had  been  misled  partly  by  Mr. 
Flood's  unscientific  method  and  completely  by  the  book- 
seller with  the  authoritative  whiskers.  If  the  latter, 
who  was  the  flower  of  Grafton  Street  culture,  maintained 
that  there  existed  no  such  poet  as  Yeats,  or  if  such  a 
poet  did  exist,  his  real  name  was  Keats,  how  could  Adam 
doubt  it?  Yet  he  found  some  comfort  in  the  fact  that 
Keats  was  not  an  Irish  poet,  for  he  had  failed  to  find 
in  his  works  more  than  odd  statements  here  and  there 
which  he  could  understand.  The  poems  seemed  a  jumble 
of  jawbreaking  words  which  he  could  hardly  make  scan 
when  he  read  them  aloud;  and  he  knew  from  Mr.  Flood 


THE  DAYS  THAT  FOLLOWED  187 

that  if  any  poetry  did  not  sound  grand  when  you  read  it 
aloud  it  simply  was  not  poetry.  Of  what  he  could  under- 
stand there  was  little  with  which  he  agreed,  and  he 
thought  Mr.  Keats  had  an  experience  of  life  quite  unlike 
his  own.  He  appeared  to  have  been  a  gentleman  of 
unlimited  means,  fond  of  "Elgin"  marbles,  which  was 
no  doubt  some  Scotch  variety  of  that  ancient  game,  and 
that  was  an  agreeable  trait  in  his  florid  and  bizarre  char- 
acter. But  what  was  one  to  make  of  such  eccentricity 
as  led  him  to  apologize  to  his  friend  Mr.  Hayden  for  not 
having  eagle's  wings?  Did  any  one  ever  hear  of  a  man 
with  eagle's  wings  or  wings  of  any  kind? 

Clearly  he  had  been  wasting  his  time,  his  eyes  and 
the  precious  oil  in  the  bull's  eye  lantern,  reading  the 
poety  of  Mr.  Keats,  who  was  not  an  Irishman  but  a 
cockney  from  London,  born  and  bred.  He  put  the  little 
book  away,  determined  to  waste  his  time  no  more.  Yet 
that  very  night  he  woke  to  find  himself  sitting  up  in  bed 
by  the  bull's  eye  lantern  and  the  book  open  in  his  hand. 
He  thought  this  witchcraft,  but  he  surrendered  to  it. 

The  next  morning  he  asked  Father  Innocent  after 
he  had  been  to  confession  and  was  leaving  the  box, 
"What  is  a  Grecian  urn?" 

"  I  don't  know,  my  dotey  boy,"  he  answered,  "  I  never 
heard  of  such  a  thing.  You'd  better  ask  them  at 
Belvedere." 


CHAPTER  XIX 
JOSEPHINE 

THAT  was  a  happy  summer-time  between  Adam's  first 
and  second  year  at  Belvedere.  Most  of  it  he  passed 
with  relatives  of  Father  Innocent,  who  had  a  little  house 
at  Sandy  Cove,  which  backecd  on  the  seashore.  You 
could  descend  to  the  beach  by  stone  steps  from  the 
garden  gate  and  when  the  tide  was  out  you  could  climb 
along  the  rocks  all  the  way  to  Kingstown  Harbor  and 
right  round  to  the  fort  at  the  entrance,  but  no  one  had 
ever  done  so  because  it  was  too  far.  If  you  went  the 
other  way  you  came  to  the  Forty  Foot  Hole,  where  you 
could  bathe,  but  Adam  did  not  bathe  there  because  Mrs. 
O'Meagher,  under  whose  care  he  temporarily  found  him- 
self, believed  that  forty  feet  of  water  would  drown  you 
more  surely  than  twelve.  Adam,  himself,  calculated 
that  the  danger  was  increased  three  and  one-third 
fold. 

Mrs.  O'Meagher  had  twin  sons,  Patrick  and  Co- 
lumba,  who  were  going  to  be  priests,  and  a  daughter 
Josephine,  who  was  going  to  be  a  nun.  Josephine  was 
older  by  a  few  years  than  Adam,  but  in  the  parlor  there 
was  a  photograph  of  her  as  she  was  at  Adam's  age,  sit- 
ting on  the  knee  of  a  gentleman  Adam  took  to  be  her 
father,  but  she  laughed  and  said  he  was  nothing  of  the 
188 


JOSEPHINE  189 

kind.  He  was  only  Mr.  Macarthy.  Adam  rather  liked 
the  look  of  Mr.  Macarthy,  though  he  did  not  think 
Josephine  ought  to  sit  on  the  knee  of  any  gentleman  who 
was  not  her  father  or  else  her  uncle,  Father  Innocent. 
He  did  not  venture  to  express  this  opinion.  He  inquired 
about  Mr.  Macarthy,  but  learnt  nothing.  Columba  said, 
"  We  haven't  seen  him  for  a  long  time." 

Mr.  O'Meagher  was  in  prison  for  a  political  offense. 
He  had  said  to  an  assembly  in  Galway  "  that  Dublin  Cas- 
tle rule  ought  to  be  destroyed,"  and  the  next  day  a  man 
had  broken  a  window  in  the  Dublin  General  Post  Office. 
It  was  proved  that  this  man  came  from  Galway,  that 
he  had  attended  a  Sinn  Fein  meeting,  on  at  least  two 
occasions  in  his  life,  and  that  he  had  asked  if  the 
General  Post  Office  were  not  Dublin  Castle.  Both  were 
returned  for  trial  and  the  man  from  Galway  being  re- 
fused bail,  Mr.  O'Meagher  declined  to  make  use  of  it  for 
himself.  His  wife  explained  to  Adam  that  he  was  tor- 
tured in  prison.  He  was  a  delicate  little  man  and  the 
authorities  were  so  frightened  of  his  dying  on  their  hands 
that  they  crammed  him  like  a  capon  and  gave  him  no 
exercise. 

Meanwhile  the  thirteen-year-old  aspirants  for  the 
priesthood  spent  their  holidays  fighting  in  the  garden, 
the  subject  of  contention  being,  the  comparative  sanctity 
of  St.  Francis  d'Assisi  and  St.  Francis  de  Sales.  Jo- 
sephine, who  was  nearly  two  years  older,  pooh-poohed 
both  saints,  and  vaunted  gently  her  own  St.  Anthony  of 
Padua.  But  she  did  not  offer  to  fight  for  him,  which 
Adam  thought  very  sensible  of  her,  for  what  is  the  good 


i9o  ADAM  OF  DUBLIN 

of  fighting  about  saints,  who  had  thought  it  wrong  to 
fight  about  themselves? 

All  the  family  were  kind  to  Adam,  but  Josephine 
kindest  of  all.  She  was  a  quiet,  motherly  person,  and, 
as  he  was  small  for  his  years,  she  loved  to  take  him 
on  her  lap,  and  tell  him  stories  about  St.  Anthony  of 
Padua.  So,  much  of  his  holiday  was  passed  in  sleep, 
for  St.  Anthony  was  a  powerful  saint,  but  not  strong 
enough  to  keep  you  awake  on  a  summer  day,  with  a 
pretty  young  woman,  rocking  you  about  in  her  lap.  To 
Josephine  he  dedicated  his  first  serious  effort  at 
poetry:— 

What  a  happy  chap 
Am  I  in  your  lap, 
Where  I  have  been, 
Dear  Josephine. 

Behold  my  happiness, 
If  I  may  so  express 
Myself  when  I  have  been, 
Not  far  from  Josephine. 

Josephine  was  surprisingly  pleased  with  this,  and  made 
a  clean  copy  of  it  to  send  to  her  favorite  sister  at  the 
Convent  of  the  Little  Sisters  of  the  Holy  Ghost,  Bray, 
where  it  was,  of  course,  read  by  Reverend  Mother,  who 
passed  it  on  to  the  convent  chaplain,  who  posted  it  to 
Father  Innocent,  who,  not  understanding  what  was  in 
his  correspondent's  mind,  proclaimed  it  a  masterpiece, 


JOSEPHINE  191 

and  congratulated  Mr.  Flood,  S.J.,  on  Adam's  progress 
under  his  direction.  He  produced  the  ipsissima  verba 
and  made  the  Jesuit  read  them  in  the  street,  or  rather 
between  the  crossing  of  O'Connell  Bridge  and  West- 
moreland Street,  amidst  a  whirl  of  competing  cars  and 
trams. 

"  Hum !  "  said  Mr.  Flood,  "  very  nice  indeed.  Perhaps 
rather  too  ordinary,  but  very  nice.  Undoubtedly  Mac- 
fadden  will  be  one  of  our  greatest  poets  if  he  perseveres. 
Application,  that's  what  he  wants." 

"  Could  Tom  Moore  have  done  it  better?  "  asked  Father 
Innocent  point  blank. 

Mr.  Flood  smiled.  That  was  not  the  sort  of  question 
to  which  a  Jesuit  ought  to  answer  Yes  or  No,  so  he 
encircled  it  in  this  fashion.  "  What  could  Tom  Moore 
not  do?  What  might  not  Adam  Macfadden  do?  But, 
was  the  present  the  future  or  the  future  the  past  ?  Was 
what  was  true  of  one  thing  necessarily  true  in  precisely 
the  same  sense  of  something  else?  And  yet  who  should 
say  which  was  which  ?  "  He  took  off  his  hat  to  Father 
Innocent,  and  left  him  in  a  state  of  mind  as  confused  as 
his  own.  But  he  was  a  thoroughly  kind,  if  exalted  man, 
and  he  wrote  to  Adam,  congratulating  him  on  his  poem 
and  submitting  this  amplification  as  making  it  more 
effective  as  a  recitation. 

Behold  my  happiness, 
If  I  may  so  express 
Myself  when  I  have  been 
Near  kind  Miss  Josephine ! 


i92  ADAM  OF  DUBLIN 

Miss  Josephine  is  kind, 
Because  her  noble  mind 
Impels  her  to  be  so, 
That  heav'nwards  she  may  go. 

So  therefore  I'll  not  sigh 
When  I  behold  her  die. 
For  God  doth  her  require 
To  help  to  swell  His  choir 
His  high  and  heavenly  choir, 
In  the  Land  of  Heart's  Desire. 

Adam  was  delighted  with  this  communication  and  with 
Mr.  Flood's  poem,  particularly  as  it  did  not  pretend 
to  be  more  than  an  extension  of  his  own,  and  he  might 
therefore  claim  to  be  the  original  begetter  of  it.  Miss 
Josephine  also  pleased  him  by  affecting  to  prefer  the 
germ  from  which  Mr.  Flood  had  developed  it.  Both 
were  astonished  at  his  knowing  anything  about  it,  and, 
if  Miss  Josephine  had  any  suspicion  on  the  subject,  she 
kept  it  to  herself.  The  Little  Sister  of  the  Holy  Ghost, 
preserved  an  icy  silence  in  her  reply  and  turned  the 
letter  on  the  necessity  of  going  to  confession  every  week, 
if  one  was  to  retain  any  hope  of  ever  entering  heaven. 

Meanwhile  Josephine  rocked  Adam  in  her  arms,  and, 
at  times  forgot  all  about  becoming  a  nun.  Yet  he  never 
forgot  that  this  was  her  predestined  future,  and  it  added 
an  exquisite  poignancy  to  his  dreams  in  her  lap.  He 
asked  her  one  day  why  she  was  called  Josephine. 

She  answered,  "  You  know  the  statues  in  the  hall." 


JOSEPHINE  193 

Adam  could  not  deny  it.  They  were  the  most  striking 
objects  in  the  house.  One  represented  the  Sacred  Heart, 
in  the  predominating  tone  of  red,  the  other  Napoleon 
Bonaparte,  in  the  predominating  tone  of  blue.  They 
had  been  bought  as  a  pair  and  balanced  each  other  very 
nicely;  for,  apart  from  their  color,  and  their  essential 
symbols,  there  was  little  difference  between  them. 

"Well,"  said  Miss  O'Meagher,  "when  father  was 
young  he  used  to  think  Napoleon  was  the  greatest  man 
that  ever  lived,  and  Napoleon's  wife  was  called  Jo- 
sephine." 

Adam's  heart  stirred  within  him.  "  I  think  Napoleon 
was  the  greatest  man  that  ever  lived,"  he  said,  and 
tried  to  call  up  some  evidence  of  the  fact,  but  could  only 
remember  that  he  had  been  beaten  in  1815  at  the  Battle 
of  Waterloo. 

Miss  Josephine  shook  her  head.  "  Oh,  no,  father  knows 
better  now.  Michael  Davitt  was  the  greatest  man  that 
ever  lived.  Napoleon  was  just  like  every  other  soldier, 
cruel  and  mean  and  treacherous.  Look  at  the  way  he 
treated  Josephine." 

"  That  was  rotten,"  Adam  agreed.  He  judged  from 
her  tone  that  he  had  treated  her  after  the  fashion  of 
Henry  VIII.  He  could  not  remember  that  his  history 
book  mentioned  Madame  Bonaparte  at  all,  but  he  was 
prepared  to  be  guided  by  Miss  O'Meagher,  who  com-r 
bined  the  attributes  of  Minerva,  with  those  of  Juno  and 
Venus,  and  could  mention  without  hesitation  such  obscure 
dates  as  the  Bull  of  Pope  Adrian,  and  the  discovery  of 
America.  Adam  was  considered  pretty  good  at  dates 


194    "  ADAM  OF  DUBLIN 

but  could  arrive  at  any  particular  item  only  by  calling 
over  his  whole  stores,  beginning  with  the  coming  of  St. 
Patrick  in  400,  and  ending  with  the  passing  of  the 
Catholic  Emancipation  Bill  in  1828.  That  the  people 
you  read  of  in  history  were  anything  more  than  names, 
ticketed  to  certain  numbers,  had  not  so  far  occurred  to 
him. 

He  was  interested  in  Napoleon  because  Napoleon's 
wife  had  been  called  Josephine,  and  he  was  subcon- 
sciously in  love  with,  among  others,  a  young  lady  who 
had  been  called  after  Napoleon's  wife.  But  he  never 
thought  of  Napoleon  as  a  real  person  who  once  reigned 
at  Paris,  as  he  thought  of  Haroun-al-Raschid,  who  had 
reigned  at  Bagdad.  Not  until  he  read  Tom  Burke  of 
Ours  did  Napoleon  come  alive  to  him.  He  commenced 
the  book  at  Sandy  Cove,  but  the  early  part,  describing 
Tom's  treatment  by  his  father,  depressed  him  too  much, 
and  he  abandoned  it.  If  Josephine  had  bade  him  read 
it  he  would  have  persevered,  but  it  was  only  her  brothers 
who  praised  it.  He  found  that  they  would  rather  have 
been  soldiers  than  priests,  but  there  was,  so  far,  no 
Irish  Army,  and  no  self-respecting  Irishman  could  go 
into  the  British  Army,  and  the  French  Army  were  all 
infidels,  and  the  German  Army  all  bullies,  and  the 
Italian  Army  all  excommunicate,  and  the  Spanish  Army 
you  couldn't  call  an  army  at  all,  and  the  Portuguese  were 
atheists,  and  the  American  Army  was  only  used  to  sup- 
press strikes  and  Red  Indians,  and  the  Russian  Army 
either  Cossacks  who  were  savages  or  policemen  who  were 
worse.  Practically  the  only  possible  army  was  the  Aus- 


JOSEPHINE  195 

trian,  and  their  father  would  not  hear  of  that,  as  he 
considered  the  Emperor  Francis  Joseph  to  be  an  old 
hypocrite.  So  they  decided  to  become  priests,  as  that  too, 
was  a  noble  and  self-sacrificing  life,  though  Latin  and 
theology  were  no  end  of  a  bore.  They  were  healthy, 
jolly,  dullish  boys,  were  Patrick  and  Columba,  and  gen- 
tleness itself  with  Adam  if  cruel  hard  on  each  other's 
noses,  whose  shapeliness  had  been  sacrificed  on  the  altars 
of  the  saints. 

But  they  were  common  clay'  compared  with  their 
sister,  Josephine.  He  decided  that  of  all  women  she 
was  most  like  to  the  Virgin  Mary,  so  like  that  in  his 
dreams  he  confounded  their  images,  but  he  said  nothing 
of  this,  for  he  was  learning  reticence.  He  remained 
from  first  to  last,  of  this  summer  holiday,  the  little  boy 
she  rocked  in  her  lap.  It  was  not  until  he  had  returned 
to  Dublin,  and  was  called  from  sleep  by  the  bells  of 
St.  George's  Church,  to  think  on  things  past,  present, 
and  to  come,  that  he  realized  that  he  loved  Josephine 
O'Meagher,  more  even  than  he  had  loved  Caroline  Brady, 
and  Caroline  Brady  was  already  dead,  he  felt  sure  just 
now  she  must  be  dead,  and  Josephine  O'Meagher  would 
be  a  nun,  before  he  would  be  old  enough  to  marry  her. 
And  what  was  the  use  of  wealth  in  this  world  that  went 
always  wrong,  a  world  that  among  all  its  mighty 
armies  had  none  in  which  a  man  might  worthily  serve. 
A  world  in  which  whole  oceans  of  love  washed 
aimlessly  as  flood  and  ebb  below  the  phases  of  the 
moon. 

He  stole  out  of  bed,  lit  the  bull's  eye  lantern,  and 


i96  ADAM  OF  DUBLIN 

opened  the  squat  and  dumpy  Keats,  where  he  had  left 
a  marker  at  the  Ode  to  a  Grecian  Urn. 


"  Thou  still  unravished  bride  of  quietness, 
Thou  foster  child  of  silence  and  slow  time, 
Silvan  historian  that  canst  thus  express 
A  flowery  tale  more  sweetly  than  our  rhyme. 
What  leaf-fringed  legend  haunts  about  thy  shape 
Of  deities,  or  mortals,  or  of  both? 
In  Tempe  or  the  vales  of  Arcady. 
What  men  or  gods  are  these?    What  maidens 

loath? 

What  mad  pursuit,  what  struggles  to  escape! 
What  pipes  and  timbrels,  what  wild  ecstasy ! " 

It  seemed  to  make  better  sense  than  it  did  two  months 
ago.  They  had  a  Grecian  urn  at  the  O'Meagher's.  Mrs. 
O'Meagher  said  that  Mr.  O'Meagher  had  said  that  it 
was  made  in  Germany.  Anyhow  it  was  not  what  Adam 
had  expected.  Patrick  said  urns  were  for  making  tea. 
Columba  said  they  were  for  burying  people.  Josephine 
said  she  didn't  see  that  their  urn  was  much  use  for  any- 
thing. Mrs.  O'Meagher  said  everything  was  of  some 
use.  Josephine  had  never  heard  of  an  "  Ode  to  a 
Grecian  Urn,"  though  she  thought  her  father  had  Keats 
among  his  books.  She  never  read  her  father's  books. 
She  read  only  what  she  brought  home  from  school,  prizes, 
and  such.  Her  prizes  were  sillier  than  his,  all  about 
saints.  She  was  half  a  nun  already  .  .  .  and  yet  she 
had  held  him  for  hours  in  her  arms,  and  kissed  him  freely. 


JOSEPHINE  197 

Suddenly  jealousy  gripped  him.  He  had  sat  on  her 
knee  and  loved  her.  She  had  allowed  herself  to  be 
photographed  sitting  on  the  knee  of  this  Mr.  Macarthy. 
Did  she  love  Mr.  Macarthy?  Mr.  Macarthy  was  old 
enough  to  be  her  father.  She  had  told  him  that  Mr. 
Macarthy  was  very  nice,  but  her  mother  did  not  care 
for  him  and  he  never  came  to  Sandy  Cove  now. 

What  did  it  matter?  She  was  going  to  be  a  nun. 
Caroline  Brady  was  dead  and  Josephine  was  going  to  be  a 
nun. 

If  Caroline  Brady  had  not  died  she  would  never  have 
been  a  nun,  she  had  never  sat  on  Mr.  Macarthy 's  knee. 
Who  was  this  Mr.  Macarthy  that  any  one  should  sit  on 
his  knee?  Why  did  Mrs.  O'Meagher  never  mention  him? 
And  why  did  Josephine  remember  no  more,  than  that 
he  was  very  nice?  When  Josephine  was  in  her  convent 
how  much  would  she  remember  of  Adam,  who  had  sat  on 
her  lap  ?  How  fickle  girls  were ! 

He  would  remember  Josephine  O'Meagher  to  his  dying 
day,  nun  or  no  nun  .  .  .  and  Caroline  Brady  too,  for 
ever  and  ever.  .  .  .  Well,  he  would  remember,  not  being 
fickle  like  a  girl,  how  he  had  kissed  them  both. 


CHAPTER  XX 
FATHER  TUDOR  ARRIVES 

LITTLE  as  he  enjoyed  returning  to  dull  and  stony  St. 
George's  Place  from  the  beloved  changeful  sea  and  the 
still  more  beloved  constant  Josephine,  Adam  once  back 
in  Dublin  looked  forward  eagerly  to  the  re-opening  of 
school.  He  had  read  much  during  his  holidays,  books 
of  adventure  and  exploration  such  as  Patrick  and  Co- 
lumba  loved,  and  when  not  sitting  in  Miss  O'Meagher's 
lap  he  had  made  very  successful  voyages  to  the  North 
Pole,  the  sources  of  the  Nile  and  Niger,  the  Andes  and 
the  center  of  the  earth.  He  had  visited  too,  the  Blue 
Lagoon  and  noticed  its  resemblance  to  Dublin  Bay,  the 
Dublin  Bay  of  his  dreams.  He  dreamed  more  and  more 
as  time  went  on,  but  his  dreams  were  for  the  time  being 
less  horrific  than  of  old  and  the  nymphs  that  rose  from 
Dublin  Bay,  however  deadly  their  embrace,  pressed  him 
otherwise  than  steam  rollers  and  had  no  sardine  tins 
tied  to  their  tails.  Sometimes  his  visions  were  theo- 
logical and  often  he  contended  with  Martin  Luther  under 
the  lee  of  His  Majesty  King  George  the  Fourth's  obelisk 
at  Kingstown,  and  flung  him  down  the  embankment  on 
to  the  railway  line  to  the  Carlisle  pier;  but  always  fol- 
lowed in  time  to  save  him  from  the  final  crushing  argu- 
ment advanced  by  the  wheels  of  the  mail;  for  after  all 
198 


FATHER  TUDOR  ARRIVES  199 

(although  a  bad  one)  he  was  a  priest.  A  very  interesting 
question  to  ponder  that — how  far  moral  obliquity  affected 
the  priestly  character.  During  the  next  term  and  still 
more  the  term  following  that,  he  pondered  it  much  in 
class. 

He  was  now  in  the  highest  class  in  the  Preparatory 
school,  and  was  usually  at  the  top  of  it  when  yachting 
cruises  in  the  Italian  seascapes  adorning  the  four  corners 
of  the  ceiling  did  not  carry  him  into  eclipse.  Father 
Strong  was  his  new  master :  a  misnamed  man,  for  he  was 
weak  and  irascible,  and  flew  into  tempers  which  made 
him  the  most  childish  person  in  the  room.  But,  like  all 
the  priests  Adam  had  so  far  met,  he  meant  well  and 
struggled  to  do  his  duty  by  the  unruly  and  mocking 
crowd  of  twelve-year-olds  who  had  not  been  a  week 
under  his  care  when  they  discovered  his  futility.  He 
liked  Adam,  because  Adam,  whatever  his  sins  of  omis- 
sion, never  played  the  fool  in  class  or  was  guilty  of 
intentional  disrespect;  and  Adam  liked  him  because  he 
tried  to  give  the  dry  bones  of  their  rudimentary  studies 
the  dignity  proper  to  the  humanities.  When  he  heard 
them  at  their  Latin  grammar  he  talked  to  them  of 
Rome,  and  gave  them  as  a  reason  for  learning  Latin,  not 
that  it  was  a  subject  dear  to  the  heart  of  the  Intermedi- 
ate Education  Board,  but  that  it  remained  to  a  great 
extent  the  living  language  of  the  wise.  Although  Adam 
perceived  that  Father  Strong  himself  was  far  from  wise, 
he  was  won  by  the  nobility  of  this  plea  and  made  up  his 
mind  to  study  Latin.  He  succeeded  in  so  far  that  he 
could  construe  Caesar  better  than  any  other  boy  in  the 


200  ADAM  OF  DUBLIN 

class,  and  had  a  larger  vocabulary,  but  grammatical  rules 
bothered  him :  he  could  not  commit  a  single  page  of 
the  excellent  Dr.  Smith's  Principia  Latina  to  memory. 
And  that  in  the  eyes  of  Intermediate  Education  Board 
is  (or  was)  not  to  be  compensated  for  by  the  most 
Ciceronian  Latin  prose.  Not  that  Adam  ever  knew  much 
more  about  Latin  prose  composition  than  that  the  verb 
ought  to  close  and  clinch  a  plain  statement,  but  Father 
Strong  suffered  less  acutely  from  his  efforts  to  turn  De 
Bello  Gallico  into  English  than  from  those  of  his  other 
pupils.  Only  when  he  caught  Adam,  his  mouth  open, 
beaming  at  the  ceiling,  heedless  of  his  exposition,  did  he 
fly  into  one  of  his  passions  and  order  him  to  carry  his 
books  to  the  bottom  of  the  class  where  sat  Alexander 
Butler,  who  was  said  to  be  nearly  twenty  and  had  hair  on 
his  chin,  over  which  he  dribbled  if  you  asked  him  the 
simplest  question.  Father  Strong  never  guessed  that 
Adam,  when  disturbed,  had  been  flying  with  Scipio 
Af ricanus  under  painted  sails  for  Carthage :  nor  did  Adam 
know  what  fantasies  made  life  a  possibility  for  Alex- 
ander Butler.  He  only  found  his  company  disgraceful 
and  repugnant,  though  it  enabled  him  to  finish  his  broken 
voyage  in  peace;  for  no  sooner  had  Father  Strong  sent 
him  into  exile  than  he  regretted  his  show  of  temper 
with  the  one  pupil  whom  it  was  a  pleasure  to  teach. 

Thus,  one  afternoon,  Adam  was  sitting  in  solitary 
disgrace,  on  the  last  bench,  near  the  window,  with  Alex- 
ander Butler  mumbling  and  shuffling  and  fiddling  with 
books  and  ink  bottles  on  his  left.  The  scarlet  of  shock 
and  humiliation  was  fading  from  his  face  and  he  had 


FATHER  TUDOR  ARRIVES  201 

withdrawn  his  eyes  from  the  bitter  prospect  of  North 
Great  George's  Street  to  plow  once  more  the  blue  Medi- 
terranean above  his  head.  He  heard  the  door  open  but 
paid  no  attention  to  it ;  for  the  worst  that  could  happen 
to  him  in  one  day  had  happened,  and  there  was  nothing 
to  do  but  beguile  himself  with  the  wonders  of  the  deep 
until  it  was  time  to  go  home.  To-morrow  he  did  not 
doubt  that  he  would  be  restored  to  his  rightful  place  at 
the  other  end  of  the  room,  which  was  nearer  the  master 
and  farther  from  the  sea. 

Then  he  was  conscious  of  a  creepy  feeling  of  incom- 
prehensible terror,  such  as  he  had  felt  often  in  his  dreams, 
but  only  once  in  real  life,  the  night  he  had  found  Old 
Comet,  the  police  spy,  drawing  his  papers  from  under 
his  arm  outside  the  Gresham  Hotel.  He  thought  he 
must  be  dreaming  to  have  such  a  feeling  here  now,  at 
Belvedere,  where  there  was  much  foolishness  but,  surely, 
no  harm.  With  an  effort  he  drew  his  eyes  from  the 
ceiling  and  looked  around.  His  classmates  were  con- 
centrated on  an  empty  blackboard;  Alexander  Butler, 
who  could  not  concentrate  on  an  abstraction,  was  per- 
severingly  polishing  a  slate  and  sobbing  with  apprehen- 
sion. Father  Strong  stood  by  the  blackboard  with  a  piece 
of  chalk  in  his  hand,  but  his  energy  paralyzed,  for  his 
eyes  were  nervously  turned  towards  Adam  and  — Adam's 
forehead  burst  into  sweat — a  shadow  that  darkened  the 
window  near  Adam's  right. 

A  deep  voice  boomed  slowly  like  a  funeral  bell  in 
Adam's  ear.  "  Tell  me,  you  boy,  what  is  it  that  your 
master  is  going  to  explain  to  you  ?  " 


202  ADAM  OF  DUBLIN 

Adam  did  not  know,  and,  if  he  had  known,  would 
have  forgotten  the  instant  he  met  the  baleful  eyes  of 
the  man  who  stood  ominously  between  him  and  the 
light  of  day.  They  seemed  to  be  red  and  yellow  eyes, 
glowing  like  a  wild  beast's  in  a  red  and  savage  face. 
Above  and  around  stood  black  curly  hair,  below  the 
harsh  white  of  the  dog-collar  threw  into  relief  the  ex- 
treme redness  of  the  thick  lips  which  disclosed,  when 
they  opened,  teeth  that  were  strong  to  rend  and  tear. 
The  features  were  mobile  enough  to  express  many 
varieties  of  fury,  but,  in  repose,  the  brows  were  con- 
tracted and  the  lips  pursed.  Had  Adam  been  a  little 
older  he  would  have  known  that  this  was  the  aspect 
of  a  lunatic;  as  it  was,  his  childish  instinct  told  him 
no  more  than  that  he  was  looking  up  in  the  face  of  a 
bad  priest. 

By  this  time  all  the  class  except  Alexander  Butler, 
struggling  with  Sisyphean  despair  to  cleanse  away  a 
flaw  in  his  slate,  were  looking  at  Adam  and  the  man 
who  had  sprung  from  nowhere  to  torment  him.  The 
voice  boomed  deeper  and  the  right  hand  of  the  ogre 
made  monstrous,  threatening  movements  as  though  grop- 
ing for  something  under  the  soutane.  "  Don't  waste  my 
time,  and  the  time  of  the  class.  It  is  nearly  half-past 
two.  Tell  me  what  Father  Strong  said  he  was  going  to 
explain  to  you."  Adam  stared  at  him  dumfounded  while 
he  produced  an  exceptionally  large  "  ferrule  "  from  under 
the  soutane.  "I  see  you  don't  know.  Hold  out  your 
hand." 

Father  Strong  interposed.    "  Father  Tudor,"  he  called 


FATHER  TUDOR  ARRIVES  203 

across  the  room.  "I  haven't  told  the  boys  yet  what  I 
was  going  to  show  them  on  the  blackboard." 

"  Quite  so ! "  Father  Tudor  returned,  without  with- 
drawing his  eyes  from  Adam.  "  And  this  boy  was  pay- 
ing so  little  attention  that  he  didn't  even  know  that.  Hold 
out  your  hand  at  once,  I  tell  you."  Adam  drearily 
obeyed.  "Left  right,  left  right,  left  again,  right 
again." 

Adam  had  been  slapped  before  both  by  Mr.  Flood 
and  Father  Strong,  and,  although  he  did  not  like  it,  sub- 
mitted to  it  readily ;  for  he  knew  that  etiquette  demanded, 
a  nodding  acquaintance  with  the  ferrule,  and  only  muffs 
escaped  it  altogether.  But,  to  the  unpleasantness  that 
attended  these  experiences  he  attached  no  more  impor- 
tance than  to  the  pain  of  a  shock  from  the  electric  bat- 
tery in  the  laboratory,  in  the  schoolhouse  proper,  which 
it  was  a  rare  privilege  to  enjoy.  But,  to  be  slapped  by 
Father  Tudor  was  like  being  struck  by  lightning.  The 
concussion  in  his  hands  vibrated  through  his  whole  sys- 
tem, and  he  fell  back  on  his  seat  in  much  the  same  state 
of  collapse  as  had  been  brought  about  by  his  father's 
attack  on  him  at  Butt  Bridge.  He  had  supposed  that  the 
days  when  he  had  shame  and  brutality  to  fear  had  passed 
from  his  life.  This  was  a  rude  awakening.  .  .  . 

He  heard  Father  Tudor  address  himself  patronizingly 
to  Father  Strong.  "  I  will  not  take  up  your  time  any 
further,  now  that  I  have  made  an  example,"  and  off  he 
went.  The  door  had  scarcely  closed  behind  him  before 
everything  was  going  on  in  the  class  the  same  as  usual, 
except  that  Father  Strong,  flustered  out  of  his  small 


204  ADAM  OF  DUBLIN 

self-possession,  had  lost  control  for  the  rest  of  the  day, 
and  Adam,  under  his  breath,  was  consigning  Father 
Tudor  to  damnation  in  the  foulest  terms  he  could  re- 
member to  have  heard  in  Sackville  Street.  As  soon  as  he 
could  dismiss  the  class  Father  Strong  hurried  down  to 
his  place  and  helped  him  to  strap  up  his  books,  which  his 
hands  were  too  painful  to  do  unaided. 

"  I'm  sorry  this  has  happened,  Adam,"  he  said  softly, 
that  not  even  the  idiotic  Alexander  Butler  might  hear. 
"  We  must  try  to  prevent  its  happening  again." 

Adam  recognized  that  his  tone  was  one  of  a  com- 
panion in  misfortune  and  answered,  "  Thank  you,  sir," 
very  gratefully.  Then  he  added,  with  a  fiery  resent- 
ment burning  his  throat  and  flashing  in  his  eye,  "  What 
right  had  he  to  slap  me  ?  " 

He  read  two  answers  in  the  priest's  face,  but  the  one 
given  was :  "  Father  Tudor  is  the  new  Prefect  of  Studies. 
He  comes  to  Belvedere  with  a  great  reputation  from 
Clongowes  on  account  of  his  successes  in  the  Inter- 
mediate. .  .  .  But  I  didn't  know  that  we  should  have 
had  him  here  in  the  Preparatory,  or  .  .  ."he  looked 
around  to  make  sure  no  one  was  listening,  "I'd  have 
warned  you." 

Adam  thanked  him  once  again,  and,  shaking  hands 
with  unwonted  affection,  they  parted. 

Adam  passed  mournfully  down  the  stairs  and  steps 
of  No.  5  Denmark  Street.  Opposite  the  post  office  he 
met  Father  Innocent,  more  than  ever  weary  and  harassed, 
but  he  brightened  on  seeing  Adam.  "  You  look  tired. 
How  are  you  getting  on  ?  "  he  asked. 


FATHER  TUDOR  ARRIVES  205 

"  I'm  not  getting  on,"  said  Adam.  "  And  I  never  will 
get  on  at  Belvedere  now." 

The  little  priest  stared.  "You've  been  overworking 
to  get  an  idea  like  that  into  your  head.  Mr.  Flood  told 
me  you  were  a  grand  fellow,  and  Father  Tuite  says 
he's  not  prepared  to  deny  it.  Have  you  collywobbles 
or  something  to  make  you  feel  tired  of  school  ?  " 

"  No,"  said  Adam.  "  It  isn't  that,  but  there's  a  new 
Prefect  of  Studies  at  Belvedere  and  he's  a  bad  priest." 
Adam's  voice  flew  up  in  his  indignation. 

"  Hush ! "  whispered  Father  Innocent  entreatingly. 
"  You  mustn't  talk  like  that.  There's  the  Vicar  of  St. 
George's  coming  round  the  corner  and  will  you  look 
who's  with  him  ?  " 

Adam  discreetly  turned  his  eyes  towards  Temple 
Street  and  saw  the  vicar,  Mr.  Cross,  a  tallish,  clean- 
shaven man,  easy  to  mistake  for  a  Jesuit  were  it  not 
for  his  round,  soft  hat,  which  in  Ireland  is  never  worn 
even  by  a  professed  priest  unless  an  occasional  young 
curate  in  the  country.  On  his  right  side  walked  or 
rather  marched  a  lady,  a  stout  lady,  an  old  lady,  the 
lady  who  had  dropped  her  letter  to  Mr.  Justice  Harrison 
on  the  pavement  outside  Gerrard's  and  had  given  Adam 
a  penny  to  take  a  bath. 

When  they  were  well  out  of  earshot  Father  Innocent 
went  on  in  a  low  voice,  "  I  wouldn't  for  the  world  have 
let  her  hear  what  you  said." 

"Who  is  she?"  asked  Adam. 

"  Have  I  never  told  you  ? "  said  Father  Innocent. 
"  She's  the  worst  woman  in  Dublin  and  that's  a  terrible 


206  ADAM  OF  DUBLIN 

thing  for  me  to  have  to  say  of  any  woman ;  for  there's 
very  little  wickedness  in  Dublin  that  I  know  of,  thank 
God."  He  dropped  his  voice  yet  lower.  "You  tell  me 
there's  a  bad  priest  at  Belvedere,  and,  sure,  I  know  it's 
not  impossible,  but,  you  know  yourself,  that  Father 
Tuite's  a  good  man,  and  do  you  think  he'd  tolerate  a 
bad  man  under  him  ?  " 

"  I  don't  think  he  would,"  said  Adam,  "  if  he  knew. 
But  Father  Tudor's  only  just  come,  and  perhaps  he 
doesn't  know  him  yet." 

"Father  Tudor,  Father  Tudor,"  the  little  priest  re- 
peated. "  I  seem  to  have  heard  that  name  before.  Any- 
how, one  thing  you  can  depend  on  it,  that  if  he  really 
is  a  bad  priest  and  not  merely  an  ordinary  man  with  the 
failings  of  us  all  and  gifts  to  compensate  for  it,  which 
we  have  not,  he  won't  remain  long  at  Belvedere."  The 
little  priest's  hands  fell  trembling  upon  the  boy's  heaving 
shoulders.  "And,  anyhow,  Adam,  my  dotey  boy,  just 
think,  if  he  does  seem  to  you  to  be  a  bad  man  and  a 
harsh  master,  of  all  the  other  priests  at  Belvedere  who 
have  been  so  kind  to  you." 

Adam  promised  that  he  would  try  to  bear  with  Father 
Tudor;  but,  he  had  no  shadow  of  doubt  in  his  mind 
that  the  worst  woman  in  Dublin  was  a  saint  compared 
with  that  anointed  priest. 


CHAPTER  XXI 
THE  MISTLETOE  BOUGH 

FATHER  TUDOR  remained  at  Belvedere  but  he  did  not 
appear  again  in  the  Preparatory  School  that  term. 
Rumor  said  that  Father  Rector  had  expressly  desired 
him  to  concentrate  his  energies  on  the  school  proper,  so 
that  Belvedere  might  "  capsize  the  stars,"  to  quote  Mr. 
Flood,  at  the  Intermediate.  But  even  had  he  revisited 
Father  Strong's  class,  he  would  have  found  it  hard  to 
pick  a  quarrel  with  Adam  Macfadden,  for  Adam  had 
learned  his  lesson.  The  adventure  with  Father  Tudor 
had  taught  him  that  foolish,  irascible,  Father  Strong's 
heart  yearned  towards  him  as  tenderly  as  might  that 
of  an  ideal  elder  brother.  In  response  Adam  flung  him- 
self eagerly  into  all  the  work  he  did  for  him,  and  re- 
mained permanently  at  or  about  the  head  of  class  in 
everything  except  mathematics,  which  was  taught  by 
another  master.  As,  however,  he  had  started  with  a 
good  working  knowledge  of  arithmetic,  and  had  a  clear 
head,  he  could  keep  himself  afloat  in  this  without  any 
trouble.  He  never,  drowsed  over  a  sum  or  a  proposition, 
and,  if  he  allowed  himself  to  embark  on  an  aerial  voyage 
during  Father  Strong's  classes,  the  priest  recalled  him 
gently  and  harmlessly  to  Mother  Earth. 

At  Christmas  Adam  enjoyed  his  last  triumph  at  Bel- 
207 


208  ADAM  OF  DUBLIN 

vedere.  He  was  first  in  English,  Latin,  and  Christian 
Doctrine,  second  in  French,  third  in  Arithmetic  and 
Elocution.  Father  Tuite  was  gracious,  and  Father 
Tudor  smiling  ferociously,  boomed  across  the  room  to 
Father  Strong,  "You  see  my  little  excursion  to  your 
classroom  was  not  altogether  thrown  away." 

Father  Strong  looked  back  at  him  and  piped  almost 
as  loudly,  "Ah,  sure,  it  wasn't  that  at  all."  He  was 
indeed  a  foolish,  an  irascible  man.  Father  Tudor  glanced 
appealingly  at  the  rector  as  much  as  to  say,  "  How  can 
you  allow  such  an  imbecile  to  teach  in  your  school  ?  " 

Father  Tuite  shrugged  his  shoulders  very  slightly,  not 
meaning  to  shrug  them  at  all.  He  preferred  Father 
Strong  to  Father  Tudor,  but  he  could  not  defend  his 
silly  indiscretion.  He  was  a  man  of  ideas  and  had 
thought  at  one  time  that  it  would  be  interesting  to  be 
Head  of  Belvedere  and  to  modernize  the  scheme  of 
education  there.  He  had  lost  that  illusion  and  wished 
to  be  out  of  it.  Father  Tudor's  zeal  for  doing  the  in- 
evitably dirty  work  of  all  educational  establishments, 
was  a  relief  to  him.  Parents  complained  of  his  severity, 
but  he  observed  some  valuable  conventions.  He  con- 
fined his  punishments  to  the  ferrule,  and  did  not  break 
slates  on  the  boys'  heads  as  had  happened  to  Father 
Tuite  himself,  when  he  was  a  small  boy  at  Belvedere, 
in  the  ground-floor  room  to  the  left  of  the  hall  door  of 
No.  6.  Besides  Father  Tudor's  methods,  however  dis- 
pleasing to  him,  promised  to  prove  successful  at  the 
Intermediate,  and  Father  Muldoon's  fiat  had  gone  forth, 
that  the  Jesuit  Schools  of  Ireland,  must  be  second  to 


THE  MISTLETOE  BOUGH  209 

none  in  the  Intermediate  Examinations.  The  ultimate 
responsibility  rested  with  him  and  not  with  Father  Tuite, 
the  philosophical  lobe  of  whose  brain  doubted  of  the 
efficacy  of  corporal  punishment  at  all. 

During  the  Christmas  holidays  he  wrote  in  this  spirit 
to  Father  Muldoon.  "  Father  Tudor,  whose  energy  as 
Prefect  of  Studies  I  hope  I  have  always  praised  as  it 
deserves,  tells  me  that  your  protege,  Adam  Macfadden, 
who  did  well  at  our  recent  examinations,  would  very 
possibly  pass  in  the  Junior  Grade  of  the  Intermediate, 
this  coming  year,  if  taken  out  of  the  Preparatory  School, 
and  put  under  Mr.  O'Meagher,  in  Third  of  Grammar. 
Father  Strong,  Macfadden's  present  master,  resents  very 
much  Father  Tudor's  interference,  and  I  do  not  like  the 
principle  of  a  move  in  the  middle  of  a  year,  though 
I  consented  to  it  last  year  when  it  was  clearly  in  the 
interests  of  all  concerned.  I  am  bound,  however,  to  say, 
that  Adam  is  a  very  promising  if  whimsical  boy,  and 
Father  Tudor's  hopes  may  be  right.  In  any  case  it  is  for 
you  to  decide  what  we  are  to  do  in  the  matter." 

Father  Muldoon  replied  verbally.  "You'd  better  do 
as  Tudor  says.  O'Meagher  is  a  smart  young  fellow, 
and  I'm  afraid  dear  old  Strong  is  a  bit  of  a  mollycoddle, 
he  doesn't  seem  to  do  much  good  with  his  class." 

"  He's  been  very  successful  with  boys  of  Macfadden's 
stamp,  willing  but  highly  strung,"  said  the  rector. 

"  We  can't  have  favoritism,"  returned  the  provincial. 
"  I'd  be  sorry  to  hear  you  encourage  that  at  Belvedere. 
Send  along  Macfadden  to  Mr.  O'Meagher  and  we'll  see 
what  he  makes  of  him." 


210  .  ADAM  OF  DUBLIN 

While  this  cloud  was  gathering  Adam  was  spend- 
ing his  Christmas  joyfully  at  Sandy  Cove  with  the 
O'Meaghers,  but  not  so  joyfully  as  the  summer.  Three 
months  had  woefully  changed  the  aspect  of  the  garden 
and  the  sea  beyond.  The  garden  was  muddy,  dark,  and 
weather-beaten.  The  sea  which  had  played  in  the  rock- 
pools  on  the  sunlight,  now  drove  before  the  bitter  south- 
east wind  across  the  reefs  to  batter  the  garden  steps. 
One  had  been  whipped  away  and  the  place  gaped 
hideously  with  crumbling  mortar,  like  the  hole  in  the 
jaw  of  some  foul  giant's  skull.  And  four  months  had 
passed  in  the  lives  of  the  young  people  of  the  house  and 
in  his  own.  Josephine  did  not  offer  to  take  him  in  her 
lap.  On  the  other  hand,  he  noticed  that  the  photograph 
of  her  sitting  in  Mr.  Macarthy's  lap  had  disappeared, 
and  encouraged  by  this  knowledge,  and  by  Patrick  and 
Columba,  he  kissed  her  under  the  mistletoe  that  hung 
in  the  hall  between  the  Sacred  Heart  and  Napoleon 
Bonaparte.  A  jocund  and  a  sweet  experience.  But  when 
he  had  done  it  for  the  tenth  time  she  said  that  was  enough. 
And  the  next  day  his  heart  fell,  coming  downstairs,  to 
perceive  that  there  was  no  more  mistletoe. 

Mr.  O'Meagher  caught  Adam  looking  wistfully  at  the 
place  where  it  had  been.  "  My  daughter  burnt  it  this 
morning  before  going  to  mass,  for  fear  there'd  be  none 
of  her  left  to  become  a  nun,"  he  said,  with  an  air  of 
grave  apology.  Mr.  O'Meagher  had  only  just  come  out 
of  Mount  joy  Prison,  and  his  hair  had  not  yet  grown,  so 
he  looked  rather  a  plain  little  man,  but  he  had  glowing 
eyes  behind  his  queer  green  spectacles  and  a  warmth  of 


THE  MISTLETOE  BOUGH  an 

humor  which  almost  consoled  Adam  for  Josephine's 
coldness.  He  explained  to  Adam  that  it  was  "  all  non- 
sense Josephine  going  to  be  a  nun.  It  was  her  mother 
and  that  dreadful  old  Turk  at  Bray  had  put  her  up  to 
it.  I  was  against  it,  and  what's  more,  Macarthy 
was  against  it,  but  you  don't  know  Mr.  Macarthy,  do 
you?" 

Adam  said  he  did  not  know  Mr.  Macarthy.  He  tried 
to  express  his  regret,  but  Mr.  O'Meagher  cut  him  short. 
"  You  must  know  Macarthy,"  said  he.  "  You  and  he 
were  made  for  one  another.  Macarthy  is  the  greatest 
man  in  Ireland.  Though,  mind  you,  I  disagree  with 
everything  he  says,  except  about  Josephine.  And 
now  my  wife's  forbidden  him  the  house,  because  we 

agree,  and  she  doesn't "  He  broke  off.  "  Sure,  I'd 

be  happier  at  Mount  joy  all  my  life,  thinking  of  the 
dreadful  things  I'd  say  when  I  got  out,  than  Josephine 
would  be  in  a  convent,  knowing  that  she'll  never  get 
out.  I  mean,  of  course,  when  the  first  blatherumskite 
has  worn  off." 

"  Can't  you  prevent  her  ?  "  asked  Adam. 

Mr.  O'Meagher  looked  away  guiltily.  "That's  what 
Macarthy  says,  and  I  suppose  I  could  if  I  was  man 
enough,"  he  said.  "  But  I  am  not,  except  when  I'm 
addressing  a  meeting  and  telling  them  to  do  the  things 
I  ought  to  be  doing  meself."  He  dropped  his  voice, 
somewhat  theatrically.  "You  see  I've  the  great  mis- 
fortune to  be  afraid  of  me  wife.  It's  not  that  she  ever 
beats  me  with  her  fists,  though  I've  no  doubt  she  could 
if  she  tried.  It's  moral  power  she  has  over  me  and 


212  ADAM  OF  DUBLIN 

that's  not  fair  when  you  come  to  think  of  it.  Now 
Macarthy's  not  a  bit  afraid  of  her,  for  she  has  no  moral 
power  over  him  and  that's  why  she  says  he's  immoral 
and  can't  bear  the  sight  of  him." 

Adam  could  not  make  up  his  mind  whether  Mr. 
O'Meagher  was  joking  or  not.  He  insisted  that  he  ought 
to  have  enough  pluck  to  see  that  his  daughter  did  not 
enter  a  convent. 

"  I  know  you're  right,"  said  Mr.  O'Meagher.  "  You're 
the  wisest  young  man  of  your  years  I've  ever  come 
across.  You  might  be  Patrick  or  Columba's  grand- 
father. But  you  don't  know  what  it  is  to  be  married 
to  my  wife,  do  you  ?  " 

Adam  answered  that  he  did  not,  and  inquired  whether 
Mr.  Macarthy  did,  a  question  which  seemed  to  surprise 
Mr.  O'Meagher. 

"  I  never  thought  of  such  a  thing,"  said  Mr.  O'Meagher, 
"  and  I  don't  suppose  he  has  either.  But  not  being 
married  to  my  wife,  you  see,  I  have  the  advantage  of 
you,  for  I  know  what  a  terror  she  is,  and  you  see  she 
has  the  whiphand  of  me,  for  she  says  she  would  have 
been  a  nun  herself,  if  I  hadn't  coaxed  her  out  of  it. 
And  if  I  do  the  same  with  Josephine  I  have  two  genera- 
tions of  spoiled  nuns  on  my  conscience." 

"And  is  it  she  who's  turning  Patrick  and  Columba 
into  priests?"  asked  Adam. 

"  Well,  I've  had  a  hand  in  that  myself,"  Mr.  O'Meagher 
admitted.  "  They're  fit  for  nothing  else,  poor  lads,  un- 
less they  emigrate.  And  if  they  were  fit  for  anything 
better,  sure  there's  nothing  better  for  them  to  do,  while 


THE  MISTLETOE  BOUGH  213 

Dublin  Castle  stands  one  stone  on  another.  I've  never 
been  able  to  teach  them  Gaelic." 

"  What's  that  ?  "  Adam  inquired. 

Mr.  O'Meagher  struck  an  attitude  of  comic  horror. 
"What's  Gaelic?"  he  repeated.  "Glory  be  to  God  and 
Belvedere  must  be  a  queer  sort  of  school  if  you  ask 
me  that." 

"  Will  you  let  the  child  come  in  to  his  breakfast,  and 
not  keep  him  blathering  there  in  the  cold  ?  "  called  Mrs. 
O'Meagher  from  the  dining-room. 

Her  husband  took  Adam's  hand  and  whispered  in  his 
ear :  "  Save  me  from  her,  and  don't  repeat  what  I've 
told  you  about  the  mistletoe,  and  not  a  word  about 
Macarthy.  She  has  a  great  respect  for  you  because 
she  thinks  you're  like  John  the  Baptist,  and  Josephine 
might  dance  before  you  till  she  wore  out  her  heels. 
But  I  know  you  better,  my  lad.  You  and  I  are  birds 
of  a  feather.  Save  me  now  and  I'll  teach  you  Gaelic." 

They  went  in  to  breakfast,  Mr.  Meagher,  very 
solemn  and  sheepish,  his  head  down  as  though  there 
was  no  hope  for  him  in  this  world.  He  fed  gloomily 
and  said  nothing. 

"What's  the  matter  with  you,  father,  this  morning?" 
asked  Mrs.  O'Meagher.  "  I  didn't  mean  to  speak  crossly 
to  you  just  now." 

"  Oh,  it  isn't  that  at  all  I'm  thinking  of,"  he  assured 
her.  "  You  know  I've  no  resentment  if  you  hit  me  with 
the  coal  shovel." 

Mrs.  O'Meagher  smiled  faintly.  "  Ah,  don't  talk  like 
that  before  Adam  or  he'll  think  you  mean  it." 


214  ADAM  OF  DUBLIN 

"  Mr.  Macfadden  understands  me  perfectly,"  he  said. 
"  There's  a  rare  lot  of  sympathy  between  us.  He  was 
advising  me  just  now  how  to  treat  yourself." 

"  What  did  he  say?  "  asked  Mrs.  O'Meagher,  her  smile 
broadening,  while  Adam  sought  to  conceal  himself  in 
his  cup. 

"  I  wouldn't  like  to  repeat  it,"  said  her  husband,  "  for 
it  was  more  practical  than  polite,  but  I'd  be  sorry  for 
Adam's  wife  if  she  ever  tries  to  bully  him  the  way  you 
bully  me,  and  I  hope  you'll  all  mark  that,"  said  he, 
with  a  side  glance  at  his  daughter. 

"  I  don't  bully  you,"  said  Mrs.  O'Meagher,  with  half 
real  indignation. 

"  It's  too  late  to  say  that  now,"  returned  her  husband 
shortly.  "  Adam  knows  all  about  it." 

Josephine's  face  was  in  harmony  with  her  mother's, 
amused  yet  protestant,  but  Patrick  and  Columba  roared 
with  laughter. 

"  Tell  us  how  Adam  is  going  to  treat  his  wife,"  they 
cried.  "  Do  tell  us  that,  father  ?  " 

But  Mr.  O'Meagher  went  on  quietly  eating  bread  and 
butter  until  their  clamor  died  down.  Then  he  asked 
his  wife  in  his  most  absent-minded  manner,  "  Is  it 
twenty  years  that  Josephine  is  older  than  Adam  ?  " 

Mrs.  O'Meagher  clashed  her  cup  against  her  saucer. 
"  Ah,  what  rubbish  you're  talking.  Sure,  you  ought  to 
know  the  age  of  your  own  daughter." 

Mr.  O'Meagher's  face  took  a  look  of  injured  innocence. 
"  Did  I  say  I  didn't  know  her  age  ?  " 

"  You  let  on,"  cried  the  twins. 


THE  MISTLETOE  BOUGH  215 

Mr.  O'Meagher  turned  to  Adam.  "You're  the  only 
one  I  can  get  any  sense  out  of  in  my  own  House,  Mrs. 
O'Meagher's  own  house,  I  would  mean  to  say.  Can 
you  tell  me  how  old  my  daughter  is?" 

"  Fifteen  and  seven  months,"  said  Adam  promptly. 

His  host  raised  his  eyebrows  to  where  his  hair  ought 
to  have  met  them.  "  Is  that  all,  Mr.  Macf  adden  ?  Then 
I  suppose  you  and  my  daughter  are  about  the  same 
age." 

The  long-baited  Josephine  was  drawn  at  last.  "  Adam 
is  nearly  six  years  younger  than  me,"  she  said,  with 
unnatural  coldness. 

"  I,  not  me,"  said  her  father  suavely.  "  You'll  have  to 
learn  grammar  if  you're  going  to  be  a  nun."  He  turned 
to  Adam.  "  A  cold  morning  like  this,  I  dare  say,  you'd 
be  glad  to  warm  your  hands  at  Josephine's  cheeks." 

Poor  Josephine  bolted.  Adam  did  not  quite  under- 
stand why.  "  You  might  have  kept  that  joke  till  the 
girl  had  finished  her  breakfast,"  said  Mrs.  O'Meagher, 
with  real  reproach.  "  She  was  out  in  the  cold  to  Holy 
Communion  this  morning,  while  you  were  still  snoring 
in  bed." 

"  Don't  let  on  you  know  anything  about  that,"  said 
her  husband,  outstaring  her  with  a  roguish  solemnity, 
"or  I'll  think  it  was  you  that  took  down  the  mistletoe 
in  the  hall.  I'm  going  to  put  it  up  again  after  breakfast." 

But  somehow  he  did  not,  nor  did  he  attempt  to  teach 
Adarri  Gaelic.  That  Christmas  remained  in  Adam's  mind 
as  a  promise  that  never  came  to  anything.  The  day  be- 
fore he  returned  to  Dublin  he  carried  into  effect  the 


216  ADAM  OF  DUBLIN 

first  deliberate  exploit  he  ever  adventured  in  the  field 
of  love.  In  a  greengrocer's  near  Glasthule  Church  he 
bought  a  sprig  of  mistletoe,  and,  when  bedtime  came, 
he  managed  to  catch  Josephine  in  her  dressing-gown,  a 
towel  over  her  arm,  going  to  the  bath.  Patrick  and 
Columba  were  already  trumpeting  in  the  sleep  of  the 
just.  From  downstairs  came  muffled  eloquence  of  Mr. 
O'Meagher,  reading  the  draft  of  a  speech  to  his  wife. 

"  Josephine,"  called  Adam  softly. 

She  turned  with  a  start,  her  long  red  hair  swinging 
over  her  shoulders.  "  You,  Adam,  why  aren't  you 
asleep  ?  " 

In  an  instant  he  was  beside  her,  the  mistletoe  in  his 
hand.  "  Because  of  you.  Look !  "  He  held  the  mistle- 
toe up. 

She  laughed  softly,  fluttering,  with  disdain  perhaps, 
but  perceptibly  fluttering.  "  You're  not  tall  enough  to  put 
it  over  my  head." 

Too  wise  to  try,  he  answered  only,  "  Never  mind. 
Won't  you  kiss  me  anyhow  ?  "  He  felt  her  fluttering, 
fluttering,  fluttering,  though  she  believed  she  stood  quite 
still.  Some  mysterious  inherited  intuition  told  him  that 
her  heart  was  beating  faster  than  his  own.  He  pressed 
her  closer,  repeating,  with  his  lips  little  higher  than  her 
breast,  so  that  she  scarcely  heard,  "  Won't  you  kiss  me, 
anyhow?  I  love  you." 

Then  her  lips  slowly  and  solemnly  descended  on  his. 
He  thought  he  had  never  been  so  kissed  before.  She 
thought  she  must  never  be  so  kissed  again. 

The  door  below  opened.    Josephine  threw  up  her  head 


THE  MISTLETOE  BOUGH  217 

so  suddenly  that  Adam  slipped  on  the  floor,  and  trying 
to  save  himself  upset  a  chair. 

"  Who's  that  breaking  the  furniture?  "  Mr.  O'Meagher 
called  from  below. 

"It's  me,"  said  Adam,  with  indiscreet  promptitude, 
and  Josephine  more  innocent  yet  than  he,  made  things 
worse  by  adding,  "It  was  all  my  fault." 

"You  needn't  tell  me  that,"  said  her  father,  with  a 
chuckle.  "  Well  I  know,  but  you'll  never  be  able  to  sue 
Adam  for  breach  of  promise,  if  you  tell  the  jury  that." 
A  whisk  of  skirts,  announcing  the  approach  of  Mrs. 
O'Meagher,  he  added  brusquely,  "  Stop  your  pillow- 
fighting,  children,  and  go  to  bed." 


CHAPTER  XXII 
THE  BULL'S  EYE  LANTERN  BURNS  OUT 

THE  Josephine  Adam  met  at  breakfast  the  next  morning 
might  have  been  a  nun  already.  Her  hair  was  brushed 
off  her  forehead  and  tied  in  a  pigtail.  She  wore  one  of 
her  school  uniforms,  she  was  unrecognizable. 

Mr.  O'Meagher  regarded  her  with  a  sardonic  smile. 
"  You  remind  me  of  Mountjoy  this  morning,"  he  said. 
"  It's  a  lovely  place  of  its  kind,  but  the  wrong  kind  of 
place." 

"What's  the  matter  with  Josephine?"  asked  her 
mother,  up  in  arms  to  protect  her  from  her  father's 
ribaldry. 

"Did  I  say  there  was  anything  the  matter  with 
her  ? "  he  protested.  "  Isn't  she  the  living  image  of 
you?" 

Mrs.  O'Meagher  was,  in  Adam's  eyes,  very  much  like 
most  women,  only  a  lot  nicer.  She  could  not  always 
repress  her  indignation.  "I  can  tell  you,"  she  said 
spiritedly,  "that  when  I  was  Josephine's  age,  no  one 
ever  saw  me  looking  like  a  guy." 

Tears  started  into  Josephine's  eyes  but  she  said  noth- 
ing. Her  father  rose  from  his  place  and  passed  behind 
her.  "  I  won't  have  your  mother  laughing  at  you," 
he  said,  and,  as  he  spoke,  with  nimble  fingers  he  loosened 
218 


THE  LANTERN  BURNS  OUT  219 

her  hair  and  flung  it  tumbling  over  her  shoulders,  as 
Adam  had  seen  it  the  night  before. 

He  was  exquisitely  thrilled,  and  thought  now  for 
sure  her  eyes  must  find  his,  but  she  sat  downcast  to 
the  end  of  breakfast,  silent,  heedless,  as  though  the  hair 
over  which  her  father  and  mother  contended,  and  Adam 
gloated,  were  not  sprung  from  the  body  which  was  the 
temple  of  her  soul. 

Her  hair  was  still  flowing  about  her,  in  the  disorder 
which  her  father's  hands  had  made,  when  the  family 
assembled  in  the  hall,  between  the  Sacred  Heart  and 
Napoleon,  to  bid  Adam  good-by.  This  time  she  bent 
publicly  to  kiss  him,  but  he  saw  by  the  strange  light 
in  her  eyes  that  she  was  going  to  imitate  her  mother 
and  touch  his  forehead.  Angry  at  the  thought  he  turned 
his  back  on  her,  and  leapt  out  into  the  street  where 
Mr.  O'Meagher  was  waiting  to  take  him  to  the  station. 

When  the  latter  returned,  his  wife  said  to  him,  with 
a  sigh,  "Adam's  getting  quite  the  big  boy.  Did  you 
notice  he  doesn't  like  to  be  kissed  any  more?" 

Mr.  O'Meagher  spread  out  before  the  fire  the  tails  of 
a  garment  which  many  believed  to  be  an  overcoat,  but 
his  tailor  called  a  frock,  and  was  composed  of  Irish  or 
perhaps  Japanese  materials,  and  said,  "  Adam  and  I 
are  going  to  be  Trappists  as  soon  as  you  divorce  me." 

His  wife  answered,  "  I'm  always  asking  you  not  to 
joke  about  serious  subjects,"  and  he  replied,  "  You  might 
as  well  ask  me  to  take  a  rope  and  hang  myself."  And 
then  Mrs.  O'Meagher  cried  softly,  until  he  kissed  her 
tears  away.  They  played  this  little  comedy  pretty  often, 


220  ADAM  OF  DUBLIN 

but  he  did  not  enjoy  it  as  much  as  she,  for  he  felt  those 
bewitching  tears  of  hers  made  misty  his  view  of  life. 
If  he  could  keep  cool  when  his  wife  wept,  perhaps 
Josephine.  .  .  . 

Anyhow,  the  worst  hadn't  happened  yet,  and  two 
years  might  make  a  difference.  If  only  Adam  weren't 
quite  so  young  and  his  family  history  quite  so  unprom- 
ising. No  one  could  guess  his  parentage  from  his  mind 
and  bearing.  Still  there  was  no  knowing  when  the  bitter 
fruit  might  burst  amidst  the  fragrant  flower  and  leaf. 
Sexually  the  child  was  precocious,  though  the  signs 
he  had  given  were  devoid  of  ugliness.  Mr.  O'Meagher 
took  it  for  granted  that  he  glimpsed  more  clearly  than 
his  wife,  the  possibilities  of  what  might  happen  between 
the  two  children.  To  her  they  were  merely  a  girl  and 
a  boy.  The  girl  already  comfortably  labeled  for  her 
destination.  The  boy  to  be  labeled  in  another  year  or 
two.  He  said  to  himself  that  it  would  never  occur 
to  her  that  Josephine  might  be  seized  by  a  great  passion, 
such  as  had  dragged  her  from  tranquility  to  this  stormy, 
tearful,  glorious  passage  through  life,  in  the  arms  of  Mr. 
O'Meagher.  Two  such  men  do  not  come  in  one  century. 
Even  the  sons  she  had  borne  him  had  only  his  moral 
worth.  They  lacked  his  worldly  genius.  It  was  enough 
that  they  and  their  sister  should  be  privileged  to  lift  their 
prayers  to  heaven  for  his  feebleness,  when  he  was  dead. 
Her  brother  Innocent  had  told  her  that  she  might  make 
her  mind  easy  about  the  safety  of  her  husband's  soul,  but 
she  knew  his  own  mind  was  far  from  easy  and  his  name 
never  absent  from  his  prayers.  Father  Innocent  shared 


THE  LANTERN  BURNS  OUT     221 

her  belief  in  Mr.  O'Meagher's  colossal  intellect,  and 
looked  up  to  him  as  Lucifer,  the  yet  unfallen  Morning 
Star.  Mr.  O'Meagher  treated  Father  Innocent  with  the 
humble  courtesy  a  St.  Bernard  dog  shows  to  a  baby. 
When  they  were  engaged  to  be  married  he  had  referred 
to  Innocent,  then  at  Maynooth,  as  the  fool  of  the  family 
and  had  brazened  it  out  that,  if  she  did  not  see  he  was, 
she  must  be  the  fool  of  the  family  herself,  which  was 
ridiculous,  as  she  had  had  the  sense  to  marry  him.  .  .  . 
And  then  there  was  the  question  of  Macarthy.  .  .  .  She 
would  have  broken  off  the  engagement  only  Innocent  had 
begged  her  not,  as  O'Meagher  was  the  greatest  and  wisest 
man  in  Ireland.  .  .  .  Innocent  had  never  known  Ma- 
carthy. .  .  .  And,  if  she  threw  him  over,  he  might 
go  and  marry  a  Protestant.  O'Meagher  thought  that 
she  was  not  so  much  afraid  of  this  as  that  he,  being 
then  in  his  Napoleonic  period,  would  have  carried  her 
off  by  violence. 

Anyhow,  they  had,  as  Mr.  O'Meagher  considered,  mar- 
ried and  lived  happily  ever  after,  whereas  Adam's  love 
troubles  were  but  faintly  adumbrated,  when  he  put  him 
into  the  train  at  Sandy  Cove,  bidding  him  to  remember 
that  "  faint  heart  never  won  fair  lady,"  and  that  the  first 
thing  he  ought  to  do  was  to  learn  Gaelic.  Adam  had 
privately  perused  O'Growny's  grammar,  finding  it  among 
his  host's  books,  but  it  awakened  little  response  from  his 
emotions  or  his  intellect.  He  did  not  feel  that  he  would 
ever  want  to  speak  it  as  he  wanted  to  speak  English,  nor 
did  he  want  to  read  it  as  he  wanted  to  read  French.  It 
was  a  more  difficult  language  than  Latin  and  yet  had  none 


2221  ADAM  OF  DUBLIN 

of  its  utility.  A  medical  prescription  in  Latin  would  be 
made  up  for  you  in  any  country  where  drugs  were 
scientifically  compounded.  A  Gaelic  prescription  you 
could  not  count  on  getting  made  up  in  Dublin  itself.  An- 
cestor worship  was  not  a  form  of  egoism  which  his 
experience  of  life  encouraged.  He  did  not  look  back- 
wards to  the  Golden  Age.  Josephine  knew  Gaelic  too, 
but  then  she  knew  Latin  much  better  than  he  did,  and 
French,  and  geography,  and  music,  and  drawing.  In- 
deed he  was  under  the  impression  that  she  knew  every- 
thing until  he  found  that  she  had  never  heard  of  Keats. 
But  he  thought  of  Letters  less  than  Love  as  the  train 
puffed  him  grumpily  through  the  Kingstown  cutting, 
down  the  seaward  slope  of  which  he  had  so  often  flung 
Martin  Luther  in  his  dreams.  In  his  future  dreams  he 
would  contend  only  with  Josephine,  at  least  he  thought 
so,  plodding  the  short  mile  through  the  railway  cutting. 
Emerging  at  Kingstown  Station  his  ideas  traveled  far- 
ther. He  could  see  Howth,  harshly  outlined  against 
violet  clouds,  through  the  sharp  winter  air  cleared  by 
the  east  wind.  The  first  time  he  had  seen  it  he  was 
with  Caroline  Brady.  She  would  never  have  treated  him 
as  Josephine  had  done  to-day.  There  was  a  steamer 
coming  out  of  the  Liffey.  The  wind  carried  her  smoke 
to  what  he  knew  from  Patrick,  was  her  starboard  side, 
towards  the  train,  so  that  in  gusts  she  disappeared  alto- 
gether. "  The  air  hath  bubbles  as  the  water  hath,"  Mr. 
Flood  had  told  him.  He  was  a  grand  man  for  language. 
But  this  was  not  the  Bristol  boat  he  saw,  for  Columba 
said  the  Bristol  boat  went  out  at  night.  He  remembered 


THE  LANTERN  BURNS  OUT  223 

that  in  Count  Alley  he  used  to  hear  the  hooter  when  it 
started.  When  he  was  very  young  it  frightened  him. 
Afterwards  he  liked  it.  It  seemed  to  say,  "  I'm  not  going 
to  stand  this  any  longer."  It  seemed  as  if  the  ship  said, 
"  Let  me  go,  let  me  go,"  and  they  had  to  let  her  go  who- 
ever they  were.  He  wondered  why  she  ever  came  back. 
He  had  not  been  to  see  the  Bristol  boat  since.  ...  He 
had  been  very  much  in  love  with  Caroline  Brady.  It 
was  queer  that  kiss  she  gave  him  in  Dalkey  Tunnel. 
Perhaps  she  gave  it  to  him  in  that  very  railway  carriage, 
the  Number  was  243,  what  was  the  number  of  the  other? 
He  ought  to  have  made  a  note  of  that.  The  numbers  of 
the  first  and  last  coaches,  on  the  Waterford  train,  were 
19  and  38.  Caroline  Brady  had  thought  it  clever  of 
him  to  know  that  thirty-eight  was  twice  nine- 
teen. 

Caroline  Brady  was  quite  different  from  Josephine 
O'Meagher,  they  were  both  older  than  himself.  .  .  .  No, 
Caroline  was  not,  for  she  was  dead.  .  .  .  Was  she  really 
dead  or  was  that  only  his  fancy  ?  Queer  that  you  should 
be  wanting  to  kiss  somebody  and  yet  not  be  sure 
whether  they  were  alive  or  dead.  He  must  really  have 
cared  very  little  for  poor  Caroline,  that  he  never  found 
out  what  became  of  her  when  she  fell  ill.  But  then, 
in  his  father's  lifetime,  he  never  had  a  chance  to  care 
about  himself,  or  any  one  else.  Why  hadn't  he  found 
out  about  her  when  he  was  at  Pleasant  Street?  There 
was  no  one  there  chasing  and  belting  him  all  day?  He 
was  working  too  hard  for  his  keep.  It  was  only  since 
he  had  been  free  from  the  risk  of  starvation  and  had 


224  ADAM  OF  DUBLIN 

gone  to  Belvedere  and  read  poetry,  that  he  had  felt  the 
necessity  of  love.  And  now  it  seemed  to  him  the  greatest 
necessity  of  all  since  Josephine  O'Meagher.  .  .  .  What ! 
The  words  came  to  him  suddenly.  "  Hath  thee  in  thrall." 
Now  he  understood  the  meaning  of  that  queer  poem  of 
Mr.  Keats  the  Cockney,  "  La  Belle  Dame  sans  Merci " 
(meaning  the  Beautiful  Lady  without  a  Thank  You). 
He  remembered  some  of  it: — 

"  O  what  can  ail  thee,  knight  at  arms, 
Alone  and  palely  loitering? 
The  sedge  has  withered  from  the  lake, 
And  no  birds  sing." 

"  O  what  can  ail  thee,  knight  at  arms ! 
So  haggard  and  so  woebegone  ?  .  .  . " 

What  on  earth  came  after  that?  Something  about  a 
hare  or  a  rabbit?  Keats  was  no  good  at  rhymes,  he 
only  gave  you  one  just  now  and  then,  when  you'd  given 
up  looking  for  it,  not  like  Scott,  who  always  kept  his 
promises  even  if  he  kept  you  waiting,  and  Moore  and 
Goldsmith,  decent  Irishmen  who  paid  up  at  once.  Moore 
was  the  easiest  of  all,  and  Goldsmith  the  friendliest  and 
Scott  the  most  poetical : — 

"And  each  St.  Clair  was  buried  there, 

With  candle,  with  book,  and  with  knell ; 
But  the  sea-caves  rung,  and  the  wild  birds  sung, 
The  dirge  of  lovely  Rosabelle." 


THE  LANTERN  BURNS  OUT  225 

That  was  poetry.  Mr.  Keats  wrote  blather  compared 
with  that.  Still  the  Belle  Dame  fitted  his  present  mood. 
How  on  earth  did  it  go  on: — 

"  I  see  a  lily  on  thy  brow  .   .   . 
I  met  a  lady  in  the  meads  .  .  . 
I  made  a  garland  for  her  head, 
And  bracelets  too,  and  fragrant  zone; 
She  looked  at  me  as  she  did  love 
And  made  sweet  moan." 

He  found  this  particularly  applicable  to  his  case  and 
Josephine's;  for  he  had,  in  a  sense,  made  a  garland  for 
her  head  and  she  had,  in  a  sense,  made  sweet  moan 
and  she  had  more  than  looked  at  him  "  as  she  did  love." 
He  had  not  made  her  bracelets  or  a  fragrant  zone:  he 
did  not  know  what  a  fragrant  zone  was  unless  it  was 
a  poetical  license  for  fragrant  ozone,  which  was  a  com- 
prehensible term  in  itself,  though  he  did  not  see  how 
you  could  make  it  unless  you  caught  it  by  the  sea  and 
bottled  it.  Perhaps  making  it  scent,  mixing  it  with 
lavender  water  or  eau  de  Cologne.  The  lady  who  asked 
her  friend  Mr.  Moore  to  play  "  Love's  Dream "  on 
the  piano  at  Pleasant  Street  was  very  fond  of  scent, 
perhaps  she  knew  how  a  fragrant  zone  was  made.  He 
might  ask  his  mother  to  ask  her.  He  had  not  seen  his 
mother  for  a  long  time,  nor  Mr.  O'Toole.  They  seemed 
to  belong  to  a  murky  past  remote  from  the  genteel 
world  he  lived  in  now.  Though  Mr.  O'Toole  looked  a 
gentleman  when  he  dressed  as  one,  and  at  Pleasant  Street 


226  ADAM  OF  DUBLIN 

he  was  always  so  dressed.  He  remembered  that  poor 
Miss  or  Mrs.  Robinson  said  Mr.  O'Toole  was  a  charm- 
ing man,  and  he  had  wondered  why.  He  was  a  bitter 
man,  said  Miss  or  Mrs.  Robinson,  because  of  his  wrongs. 
What  were  Mr.  OToole's  wrongs?  He  always  felt  he 
was  a  villain,  although  since  he  dressed  so  well  he  had 
partly  forgotten  the  feeling.  What  was  a  villain?  Per- 
haps he  was  one  himself  if  he  only  knew.  Or  would  he 
be  when  he  grew  up  ...  if  ...  Josephine  was  going 
to  be  a  nun.  He  shivered. 

"O  what  can  ail  thee,  knight  at  arms? 
Alone  and  palely  loitering.  ..." 

A  smell  of  gas  and  bilge  water  woke  him  up.  The  ex- 
press was  palely  loitering  through  Ringsend  into  West- 
land  Row. 

He  was  nearly  in  his  teens  now,  another  year,  and  a 
man  of  means.  He  had  eighteenpence  in  his  pocket. 
He  took  a  car.  It  sidled  down  to  the  roadway,  then 
the  horse  snorted  with  pleasure  at  the  light  weight 
behind  it,  and  threw  out  its  legs  in  a  sort  of  gallop, 
striking  fire  from  the  tramlines  while  the  wheels  bounded 
grandly  on  the  great  paving  stones,  and  Adam  bounced 
on  the  cushions  above  them;  but  he  was  not  going  to 
hold  on,  not  he ;  it  was  nobler  to  fall  off  than  to  hold  on. 
Yet  he  was  glad  to  get  off  the  stones  of  Brunswick  Street 
which  really  walloped  him  more  than  was  quite  enjoyable 
and  made  him  bite  his  tongue  twice.  Bump,  bump,  over 
Butt  Bridge.  There  lay  the  Bristol  steamer  right  enough. 
She  was  getting  up  steam  already.  Up  the  hill  to  Mount- 


THE  LANTERN  BURNS  OUT  227 

joy  Square.  It  was  grand  to  drive  past  Father  Tuite  in 
Gardiner's  Place  and  to  salute  him  like  a  gentleman, 
grander  still  to  pretend  not  to  see  Father  Tudor  at  the 
corner  of  Temple  Street.  Grandest  of  all  to  give  the 
jarvey  sixpence  more  than  he  had  any  sort  of  right  to 
expect,  and  to  see  him  touch  his  hat  and  hear  him  say, 
"  Thank  your  honor  and  God  bless  you."  And  to  think 
he  used  to  say  that  himself  on  the  chance  of  making  a 
halfpenny!  Life  was  magnificent  and  only  fools  would 
want  to  loiter  palely  through  it.  It  was  not  one  sort 
of  poetry  but  all  sorts  of  poetry  put  together.  He  could 
love  Josephine  O'Meagher  until  St.  George's  bells  had 
rung  the  end  of  time ;  but  no  Beautiful  Lady  without  a 
"  thank  you  "  was  going  to  hold  him  in  thrall. 

And  yet  again,  when  he  was  undressed  and  getting  into 
bed,  the  bull's  eye  lantern  forced  its  way  out  of  the 
cupboard  and  a  dumpy  little  book  sprang  after  it,  and 
fell  open  at  a  page  thumb-marked  like  Lady  Eland's  letter 
to  Judge  Harrison;  but  on  a  grander  scale: — 

"  Heard  melodies  are  sweet,  but  those  unheard 
Are  sweeter;  therefore,  ye  soft  pipes,  play  on; 
Not  to  the  sensual  ear,  but,  more  endear'd, 
Pipe  to  the  spirit  ditties  of  no  tone : 
Fair  youth,  beneath  the  trees,  thou  canst  not  leave 
Thy  song,  not  ever  can  these  trees  be  bare ; 
Bold  lover,  never,  never  canst  thou  kiss, 
Though  winning  near  the  goal — yet,  do  not  grieve, 
She  cannot  fade,  though  thou  hast  not  thy  bliss, 
For  ever  wilt  thou  love,  and  she  be  fair." 


228  ADAM  OF  DUBLIN 

Keats  had  it  after  all  over  Scott.  The  lady  who  lived 
for  ever  on  the  Grecian  Urn  transcended  lovely  Rosabelle, 
eaten  long  ago  by  fishes.  She  was  of  the  essence  of  life ; 
for  she  could  but  would  not  die.  Neither  sea  nor  land 
change  suffered  she :  hers  was  the  now  that  has  a  future 
but  no  past.  .  .  . 

The  bull's  eye  lantern  burned  out  and  wakened  poor 
Miss  Gannon  from  dreams  of  brimstone  falling  on  the 
cities  of  the  plain;  but  no  earthly  odor  could  summon 
Adam  from  that  land  where  he  would  always  love  and 
Josephine  be  fair. 


CHAPTER  XXIII 
THE  JESUIT  BOY'S  SHORT  WAY  TO  HEAVEN 

IN  the  basement  of  St.  George's  Place  dwelt  St.  Kevin, 
the  kitchen  cat  and  Attracta:  possibly  they  shared  the 
same  apartment.  On  the  ground  floor  was  Mr.  Gannon, 
a  scion  of  the  wealthy  branch  of  the  landlady's  family 
and  a  medical  student ;  but  a  strictly  brought-up  Catholic 
or  she  would  not  have  trusted  him  in  so  precarious  a 
situation.  The  drawing-room  floor  was  occupied  by  a 
junior  barrister  of  great  age :  his  atmosphere  was  whiski- 
fied,  but  his  moral  character  impeccable.  He  enjoyed  as 
a  bachelor  a  life-interest  in  the  name  of  Murphy,  and 
Miss  Gannon  saw  that  he  and  young  Mr.  Gannon  together 
went  to  long  mass  at  Gardiner's  Street  on  Sunday.  She, 
herself,  brought  Adam  to  eleven  o'clock  mass,  paying 
sixpence  as  they  went  in  and  sitting  with  the  nobility 
and  gentry  in  the  sanctuary.  It  was  by  Father  Muldoon's 
express  direction  that  they  did  this;  but  Adam  ignored 
his  further  implied  command  that  he  should  take  a  Jesuit 
Confessor.  That  would  never  be  unless  Father  Innocent 
wished  it,  and  he  knew  very  well  Father  Innocent  did  not. 
Adam  had  the  front  room  on  the  second  floor,  and, 
in  that  behind  him,  arranged  also  as  a  bed  sitting-room 
and  packed  with  small  photographs  of  unnumbered 
priests,  mostly  in  heaven  and  their  names  forgotten  even 

229 


230  ADAM  OF  DUBLIN 

by  her,  Miss  Gannon  passed  her  innocent  nights,  haunted 
by  a  smell  of  paraffin  for  which  she  never  could  account. 
Her  reason,  too  little  exercised  to  be  efficient,  told  her 
that  if  it  came  from  anywhere,  which  was  doubtful,  it 
must  come  from  the  top  floor  tenanted  by  a  person  she 
never  referred  to  otherwise  than  as  "  that  Frenchman  " 
or  addressed  but  as  "  Mr.  Frenchman."  When  she  was 
notably  out  of  temper,  as  on  the  monthly  Sunday  she 
went  to  early  mass,  she  called  him  "  that  old  Frenchman." 
To  Adam  he  appeared  to  be  younger  than  Mr.  Murphy, 
B.L.,  whom  she  persisted  to  treat  as  a  promising  youth. 

The  reason  that  Miss  Gannon  regarded  Mr.  Murphy 
as  of  promise  and  Mr.  Frenchman  as  not,  was  that 
neither  by  fair  means  nor  foul  could  she  induce  the  latter 
to  fulfil  his  religious  duties.  When  he  first  came  to 
her  for  lodging  she  had  asked  him  if  he  were  a  Protestant 
(for  she  was  often  troubled  by  Protestants  wanting  rooms, 
on  account  of  her  being  so  near  St.  George's  Church), 
and  he  had  answered  an  emphatic  negative.  Therefore 
he  must  be  a  Catholic  like  all  other  Frenchmen  (except 
that  Captain  Dryfoo  who  was  a  Jew  and  ought  to  have 
been  hung)  ;  but  never  once  had  \ie  left  her  house  on  a 
Sunday  in  time  to  hear  a  mass.  It  was  a  scandal,  and 
she  would  not  have  tolerated  him  for  a  moment  in  the 
house  but  that  she  had  to  live,  and  for  twenty  years  now 
he  had  been  paying  his  bills  more  punctually  than  any 
other  lodger  she  had  ever  housed.  It  was  an  honor  to 
have  a  gentleman  like  Mr.  Murphy  occupying  the 
drawing-rooms,  but  she  could  not  have  afforded  it  but 
for  that  Frenchman  up  in  the  garret. 


THE  SHORT  WAY  TO  HEAVEN         231 

Adam  was  more  interested  in  that  Frenchman  than 
in  any  other  of  his  fellow  lodgers,  but  he  felt  shy  of 
approaching  him,  partly  because  he  knew  it  might  lead 
to  difficulties  with  Miss  Gannon  and  still  more  because 
Father  Innocent,  from  whom  he  hid  nothing,  would  have 
frowned  on  his  acquaintance  with  any  one,  except  his 
brother-in-law  (a  man  of  genius  not  to  be  measured  by 
mortals),  who  did  not  go  to  mass.  That  Frenchman 
was  a  music-master  by  profession,  and,  although  he  re- 
ceived no  pupils  at  St.  George's  Place,  Adam  often  heard 
his  piano  giving  forth  soft  sounds  as  pleasing  as  they 
were  unfamiliar.  On  Friday  nights  the  man  with  the 
obsolescent  cornet,  on  whose  performance  Adam's  first 
theories  of  the  sublime  and  beautiful  were  based,  would 
come  down  by  the  church  and  play:  — 

"When  other  lips  and  o — o — o — other  ..." 

and  then  pause  and  look  up  for  a  signal  from  the  French- 
man's window.  If  nothing  happened  he  would  take  his 
second  wind  and  continue: — 

"...  hearts 
Their  tales  of  love  shall  tell." 

and  so  on  to  the  bitter,  or,  as  it  still  seemed  to  Adam, 
the  rather  sweet  if  flat  and  unworthy  end.  But,  if 
the  Frenchman  were  at  home,  he  would  hasten  down  to. 
the  hall  door  and  they  would  have  a  brotherly  little 
talk  ending  with  a  "Thank  your  honor  and  God  bless 


232  ADAM  OF  DUBLIN 

you,"  from  the  troubador,  who  would  go  hence  and  be 
heard  of  no  more  until  the  following  Friday.  Adam 
noticed  that  if  the  wind  was  from  the  north  he  dis- 
appeared towards  the  south,  if  from  the  south  towards 
the  north.  Always  to  leeward  of  St.  George's  Church. 
But  if  the  Frenchman  were  out  he  was  careless  whither 
he  roved,  and  the  more  passionate  or  better  sustained 
notes  of  his  cornet  vibrated  through  the  neighborhood 
for  an  hour  after  his  bodily  presence  had  passed  from  the 
precincts  of  St.  George's  Church. 

Thanks  to  Father  Innocent,  Adam  was  an  exceptionally 
honest  boy  and  he  seldom  told  lies  which  he  fully  recog- 
nized as  lies  at  the  moment  of  their  enunciation:  he 
might  exaggerate  the  importance  of  his  part  in  the  Cos- 
mos, but  he  would  scorn  to  obtain  by  dubious  words  any 
material  good  or  thus  to  save  his  skin.  On  the  other 
hand,  the  higher  principles  of  honor  were  as  little  taught 
at  Belvedere  as  in  Marlborough  Street,  and  he  had  no 
scruple  about  indulging  his  inquiring  spirit  in  the  study 
of  the  outside  of  that  Frenchman's  letters  when  he  found 
them  in  the  hall  or  even  attempting  to  read  his  post 
cards.  These  were  written  in  an  extraordinary  variety 
of  styles  as,  "  Mr.  Baire,"  "  H.  Bare,  Esq.,"  "  Mr.  Bare," 
"  All  Illustrissimo  Signore  Enrico  Bero,"  "  Mr.  H.  Bair," 
"Monsieur  Henri  Bayere,"  "Herr  Beijer."  One  from 
India  was  addressed  to  "  Serenest  Wisely  Mare  Bear." 
On  the  back  ran  the  mysterious  message :  "  If  you  make 
side  winks  at  Dina  Myte  we  have  not  laid  with  her." 

It  was  not  surprising  that  Miss  Gannon  even  after 
twenty  years,  should  find  it  easier  to  call  him  "Mr. 


THE  SHORT  WAY  TO  HEAVEN         233 

Frenchman  "  than  choose  the  right  name  from  so  many. 
But,  to  Adam's  young  brain,  it  was  clear  that  if  you 
called  him  Mosyou  Bare  he  would  recognize  himself  as 
the  person  to  whom  you  spoke.  And  so  he  did,  and, 
when  Adam  said  to  him  on  the  staircase,  lifting  his 
cap,  "Bonjewer,  Mosyou  Bare,"  he  would  lift  his  tall 
hat  and  say,  "  Goot  tay,  Mistare  Macfatten."  And  if  he 
met  him  carrying  his  books  to  or  from  Belvedere  he 
would  add,  "  Larening,  always  larening !  Do  not  forget 
dare  is  also  Luff  and  Lippertee."  Now  "  larening  "  was 
presumably  his  way  of  saying  "  learning,"  but  what  was 
"  Luff  "  if  not  (as  explained  by  Columba  O'Meagher)  a 
marine  term  meaning  to  put  the  helm  to  port,  and 
"  Lippertee  "  suggested  nothing  except  Lipton's  Tea,  a 
contemptible  suggestion. 

On  the  Black  Monday  that  Adam  returned  to  Belve- 
dere, after  spending  his  Christmas  holidays  at  Sandy 
Cove,  it  being  then  twenty-five  minutes  past  nine  by 
St.  George's  clock,  a  trifle  fast  at  the  beginning  of  the 
week,  he  was  overtaken  by  that  Frenchman  in  Temple 
Street  and  the  usual  greetings  passed.  Then  Adam 
raised  his  voice.  "  What  exactly  do  you  mean,  Mosyou 
Bare,  by  Luff  and  Lippertee  ?  " 

That  Frenchman  eased  his  pace  to  look  down  on  him, 
for  he  was  a  tall  man,  and  walked  naturally  with  long 
defiant  strides.  "  You,  an  Irishman,  ask  that !  "  Adam 
understood  him  to  say,  "  Why,  die  Liebe,  die  Freiheit, 
1' Amour,  la  liberte."  He  marched  on,  leaving  Adam 
prickling  with  electricity  from  the  energy  he  had  put 
into  the  words  "  L'Amour,  la  liberte,"  there  was  no  mis- 


234  ADAM  OF  DUBLIN 

taking  what  they  meant.  One  minute  of  half-past  nine  by 
Findlater's  Church:  he  passed  through  the  sullen  gate- 
way at  Belvedere  and  along  the  covered  way  to  the 
School  House  Chapel.  Once  upon  a  time  the  Prepara- 
tory boys  heard  mass  in  the  Oratory  at  No.  5.  He  hated 
the  schoolhouse  proper  because  it  seemed  to  lie  in  Father 
Tudor's  domain.  Sometimes  Father  Tudor  said  mass. 
It  was  queer  to  think  of  Father  Tudor  saying  mass.  It 
was  a  wonder  God  did  not  strike  Father  Tudor  dead  for 
having  the  impudence  to  say  mass.  Perhaps  He  was 
waiting  to  catch  Father  Tudor,  the  way  Father  Tudor 
went  about  trying  to  catch  other  people.  Some  day  He'd 
cry,  "  I've  got  you,"  and  snap  him  away  to  the  depths  of 
hell.  That  would  be  grand. 

Father  Elphinstone  was  saying  mass  this  morning  with 
Charlie  Bridgeman  and  Joe  Macinerny  as  acolytes.  Fa- 
ther Elphinstone  was  rather  like  Father  Innocent  but 
older  and  more  learned.  If  Father  Innocent  wished  it,  he 
wouldn't  mind  going  to  Confession  to  him.  "  L'amour, 
la  liberte."  French  was  a  good  language:  he  wished 
he  were  a  Frenchman  like  Mosyou  Bare.  "Liberte, 
Egalite,  Fraternite,"  that  was  what  it  said  on  French 
stamps.  Mr.  O'Meagher,  too,  said  they  were  grand 
words,  only,  he  said,  the  French  themselves  did  not  know 
what  they  meant.  .  .  .  Amen!  That  was  over.  The 
day's  work  was  begun.  He  noticed  one  or  two  new  boys 
as  they  streamed  out  of  chapel.  Outside,  pressing  his 
back  against  the  staircase  all  black,  white,  and  red,  hov- 
ered Father  Tudor,  peremptory,  thunderous,  fussy. 
Adam  passed  him  with  averted  eyes,  a  cuffed  left  hand 


THE  SHORT  WAY  TO  HEAVEN         235 

caught  him  and  thrust  him  back,  and  the  Prefect  of 
Studies  boomed  in  his  ear :  "  Macf adden,  upstairs,  Third 
of  Grammar." 

The  blow  was  too  sudden,  too  severe  for  protest. 
While  Adam  was  waiting  for  God  to  catch  Father  Tudor, 
Father  Tudor  had  stolen  a  march  and  caught  him. 
"  L'amour,  la  liberte,"  what  a  mockery  were  the  words 
singing  in  his  ears  as  he  climbed  upstairs  to  the  Third 
of  Grammar  classroom.  He  had  never  been  upstairs 
before,  except  to  the  laboratory  where  Father  Elphinstone 
sometimes  treated  them  to  electric  shocks  when  Mr.  Tom- 
linson,  the  science  master,  was  away.  He  asked  a  boy 
which  was  Third  Grammar.  He  answered :  "  At  the  end 
of  the  passage.  You'll  be  under  a  holy  terror  spawned  by 
old  Tudor  himself." 

"What's  his  name?"  asked  Adam,  conjuring  up  a 
hideous  Afrite. 

"  O'Meagher,"  said  his  informant.  "  Tim  O'Meagher. 
He's  not  been  at  it  long,  but  he's  a  muddy  terror.  Tudor's 
whelp,  I  tell  you." 

All  that  Adam  took  in  of  this  speech  was  the  word 
O'Meagher.  And  that  was  a  good  omen.  He  could  not 
imagine  any  one  of  the  name  being  personally  hostile 
to  himself.  If  this  O'Meagher  were  worthy  of  his  name 
Adam  would  work  so  hard  for  him  that  Tudor  or  no 
Tudor,  he  could  not  find  any  fault  with  him. 

Mr.  Timothy  O'Meagher's  reception  of  him  was  not 
unfriendly.  It  was  even  hearty  in  a  perfunctory  and 
anxious  way.  He  was  a  small,  sturdy  man,  with  a 
desperately  eager  manner,  outstanding  ears  that  heard 


236  ADAM  OF  DUBLIN 

and  held  everything  said  to  him,  and  brightly  foolish 
eyes.  He  was  Father  Tudor's  triumph,  discovered  by 
him  at  Limerick,  carried  off  to  Clongowes  and  borne 
triumphantly  on  his  afflatus  through  Intermediate  Ex- 
hibitions to  the  National  University  and  the  novitiate. 
Father  Tudor,  while  still  himself  a  novice,  had  noted 
the  receptivity  of  his  ears,  had  determined  they  should 
receive  nothing  but  what  came  from  him  or  had  his 
approval,  had  indeed,  sought  to  mold  the  mind  of 
Timothy  O'Meagher  in  the  likeness  of  his  own.  This 
he  could  not  do.  Timothy  O'Meagher  had  no  mind:  if 
he  inherited  any  from  his  parents  it  had  fallen  to  pieces 
under  Father  Tudor's  energy;  but  he  was  an  excellent 
instrument  for  the  reproduction  of  the  cold  cream  of 
Father  Tudor's  educational  ideals,  without  reference  to 
the  fanaticism  which  inspired  them.  Mr.  O'Meagher 
knew  exactly  how  and  why  his  scholastic  career  had  been 
so  brilliant ;  he  knew  exactly  how  to  impart  the  informa- 
tion to  all  other  boys  whose  ears  were  big  enough  to 
take  it  in.  You  had  only  to  concentrate  your  whole 
being  on  Mr.  O'Meagher's  instruction  and  you  were 
unmade  for  life,  as  life  is  understood  by  good  Catholics 
in  Ireland:  you  might  even  get»a  well-paid  post  in  the 
Civil  Service.  And  you  could  enjoy  bodily  success  with- 
out peril  to  your  soul ;  for  it  was  an  open  secret  that 
Mr.  O'Meagher  was  the  author,  under  the  guise  of 
"  Scholasticus "  of  The  Jesuit  Boy's  Short  Way  to 
Heaven,  said  to  have  been  very  nearly,  but  not  quite,  pub- 
lished by  Burns  and  Oates,  and  now  to  be  obtained  at 
Gill's  for  one  shilling.  Father  Tuite  thought  the  original, 


THE  SHORT  WAY  TO  HEAVEN          237 

when  he  read  it  in  manuscript,  somewhat  vulgar  and 
pedestrian.     Father   Elphinstone   said   it   was   dreadful 
nonsense  and  might  have  been  written  by  a  mad  Domini- 
can.   Father  Muldoon  had  frowned  upon  it  at  first  but, 
after  Father  Tudor  had  rewritten  it  with  a  certain  fire 
the  author  lacked  and  offered  to  find  a  tactful  publisher, 
the  provincial's  bann  was  withdrawn.     Like  everything 
else  Timothy  O'Meagher  had  done,  it  was  a  success,  and, 
from  that  day,  Father  Tudor  and  he  outweighed  Father 
Tuite  and  Father  Elphinstone  in  the  Provincial's  esti- 
mate alike  as  educationalists  and  theologians. 
This  was  the  first  paragraph  in  the  book : — 
"  I  see  a  handkerchief  in  your  pocket.    It  is  a  white 
handkerchief.    You  have  not  had  it  long.    Take  it  and 
tie  a  knot  in  it,  a  hard  knot.    Always  tie  a  knot  in  every 
clean  handkerchief  you  get.    Then,  when  you  wipe  your 
nose,  you  will  be  reminded  that  one  day  you  will  be 
scourged  with  knotted  ropes  in  Purgatory.  Be  sure,  while 
there  is  time,  that  you  will  not  be  scourged  in  hell. 
"When  tempted  by  bad  thoughts,  wipe  your  nose. 
"  In  evil  company,  wipe  your  nose. 
"  If  you  have  nothing  else  to  do,  wipe  your  nose." 
Adam  was  so  anxious  to  please  Mr.  O'Meagher  that 
he  bought  his  book  and  would  have  read  it  but  that  this 
opening  paragraph  distressed  him  too  much.     It  con- 
vinced him  that  he  could  never  please  Mr.  O'Meagher. 
He  noticed  too,  that  the  boys  in  Third  of  Grammar 
either  had  not  read  Mr.  O'Meagher's  opening  paragraph, 
or  were  not  afraid  of  going  to  hell.     They  seldom,  or 
never,  wiped  their  noses:   few,   indeed,  had  handker- 


238  ADAM  OF  DUBLIN 

chiefs  in  which  a  knot  would  attract  attention.  The 
whole  class  lived  in  too  great  a  hustle  to  regard  the 
decencies  of  life.  Mr.  O'Meagher  kept  them  scampering 
through  his  short  ways  to  success  in  the  Intermediate 
Junior  Grade  subjects,  and  woe  betide  you  if  you  failed 
to  follow  him,  for  his  ferrule  was  scampering  over  your 
fingers  before  you  knew  where  you  were. 

But  Adam  saw  that  poor  Timothy  took  no  real  pleasure 
in  punishing  you,  he  had  not  a  mind  for  it  like  Father 
Tudor;  he  hurt  you  badly  not  through  adroitness,  but 
through  clumsiness.  His  one  idea  was  to  hustle  from 
one  thing  to  another,  if  he  had  had  to  give  you  medicine 
he  would  have  flung  it  in  your  face;  that  was  the  way 
you  got  things  done  in  this  bustling  vale  of  tears.  The 
boys  scrambled  into  class  in  the  morning,  blear-eyed 
and  sullen  except  for  the  brilliant  fellows  with  big  ears, 
they  scrambled  through  their  lessons,  they  scrambled 
downstairs  again  and  up  again,  finally  about  half  of 
them  scrambled  homie  at  three  and  the  other  half  waited 
huddled  together  the  coming  of  Father  Tudor,  who  would 
slap  them  some  more  for  faults  for  which  Mr.  O'Meagher 
had  already  slapped  them. 

At  this  hour  of  the  day  Adam  felt  almost  sorrier  for 
Timothy  O'Meagher  than  for  the  boys  he  betrayed  to 
Father  Tudor.  Once  the  proper  class  was  over  and  the 
vivacity  of  teaching  had  gone  out  of  his  face,  the  lively 
eyes  declined  into  pitiful  foolishness,  the  man  shrank 
into  nothing.  He  listened  as  nervously  as  the  victims 
for  the  executioner's  step  in  the  corridor.  He  vaguely 
dreaded  the  scene  to  follow.  He  was  only  the  lion's 


THE  SHORT  WAY  TO  HEAVEN          239 

jackal,  Father  Tudor's  creature,  and  merely  despicable. 
So  it  would  be  for  half  a  century  to  come ;  that  was  his 
short  way  to  heaven. 

Mr.  O'Meagher  continued  to  be  friendly  with  Adam 
for  a  week,  two  weeks,  even  three.  "  I  know  all  about 
you,"  he  would  say.  "  You're  brilliant,  you'll  do  splen- 
didly. All  you  want  is  application.  Work,  work,  work, 
morning,  noon,  and  night.  Then  you'll  do  splendidly." 

Adam  worked,  according  to  his  lights  he  worked  hard, 
but  he  preferred  Keats  to  Alvarez's  Latin  Prosody  and 
knew,  from  the  first,  that  he  was  doomed,  sooner  or  later, 
to  wait  for  Father  Tudor  after  the  boys  with  big  ears 
had  gone  home. 


CHAPTER  XXIV 
THE  CHURCH  MILITANT 

THE  catastrophe  came  unexpectedly  after  all.  He  had 
told  Father-  Innocent  of  his  increasing  difficulties  at 
Belvedere  and  of  the  fatuity  of  Tudor's  creature;  and 
Father  Innocent,  sad  and  worn  and  hollow-eyed,  had 
begged  him  to  make  the  best  of  things.  "It's  been  a 
cruel  world  for  you,  my  dotey  boy,"  he  said.  "  But 
surely,  even  if  some  hours  in  every  week  are  a  trial  to 
you,  your  life  as  a  whole  is  happier  than  it  was  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know,"  said  Adam.  "  I've  more  to  eat  and 
a  better  bed  and  a  chance  to  keep  clean  and  all  that, 
but  I'd  rather  be  selling  papers  outside  the  Gresham 
any  day  than  sit  listening  to  old  O'Meagher  gabbling 
nonsense  and  knowing  that  Tudor  may  sail  in  at  any 
moment  and  catch  me  over  the  back  with  his  ferrule  if 
he  thinks  I'm  not  listening  hard  enough  to  please  him." 

"  Father  Tudor,"  repeated  the  little  priest.  "  Father 
Tudor,  h'm.  There's  something  I'm  going  to  say  to 
*  you  in  confidence  about  Father  Tudor.  You'll  promise 
me  it'll  go  no  farther?" 

Adam  smiled.  "I  think  perhaps  I  know  what  it  is. 
He  had  a  great  shock  to  him  when  he  was  young  and 
he's  got  a  screw  loose  ?  " 

Father  Innocent  looked  a  reproof.  "  It's  not  a  laugh- 
240 


THE  CHURCH  MILITANT  241 

ing  matter  for  the  poor  man  to  be  mad.  It's  a  great 
misfortune." 

"  It's  a  great  misfortune  for  me,"  said  Adam,  "  to  have 
a  madman  waiting  behind  the  doors  for  me  with  a 
thing  he  could  brain  me  with  in  his  hand.  And  it  isn't 
me  only.  ...  I  give  him  no  chance  to  get  at  me,  but 
I've  seen  him  cut  a  piece  out  of  Jack  Walsh's  thumb." 

"  That  must  have  been  an  accident,"  said  Father  Inno- 
cent. "  Poor  Father  Tudor's  not  so  mad  as  to  do  a 
thing  like  that  on  purpose." 

"  I  wonder,"  said  Adam.  "  I've  seen  him  look  like  a 
demon  in  the  pantomime,  rollfng  his  eyes  and  tongue  as 
if  he  were  going  to  have  a  fit." 

"  Men  who  are  doing  their  best  may  have  fits,"  said 
the  little  priest  gently.  "You  or  I  or  any  one  might 
even  be  afflicted  with  delusions." 

"  Do  you  thfnk  that  men  like  Father  Tudor  ought  to 
be  allowed  to  teach  ?  "  Adam  asked  point  blank. 

"  I  do  not,"  admitted  Father  Innocent.  "  But  I  think 
that  boys  like  yourself  ought  to  put  up  with  it  as  well 
as  you  can  and  try  not  to  make  things  worse  for 
them." 

So  that  night  Adam  worked  at  his  lessons  particularly 
hard  and  came  to  school  next  day  so  word-perfect  that 
Mr.  O'Meagher  could  not  catch  him  out.  But  he  had 
not  learned  them  in  the  way  Mr.  O'Meagher  had  taught 
them,  and  whenever  he  questioned  Adam  and  received 
the  right  answer  in  what  he  considered  the  wrong  way, 
he  gave  a  discontented  sniff.  This  irritated  Adam  as 
much  as  his  contempt  of  his  short  way  to  learning  irri- 


242  ADAM  OF  DUBLIN 

tated  him.  He  put  to  him  many  questions,  always  with 
the  same  results.  At  last  he  turned  his  back  on  him 
in  dudgeon  and  gave  himself  to  the  fruitful  long-eared. 
It  was  the  first  class  of  the  day,  they  were  reading  Ovid. 
Adam  had  construed  and  parsed  his  line  not  incorrectly 
in  schoolboy  fashion,  his  troubles  were  over  for  the  mo- 
ment and  he  knew  he  would  do  equally  well  with  every- 
thing else.  His  mind  was  at  ease.  He  regretted  the 
absence  of  mural  decorations  in  the  new  classroom  but 
there  was  a  large  map  of  the  world  on  Mercator's  pro- 
jection which  showed  you  where  you  could  go,  though  it 
gave  you  no  painted  sails  to  carry  you.  He  vaguely 
heard  Mr.  O'Meagher  linking  the  Metamorphoses  with 
some  catchword  of  his  own.  "  You  all  know  that  I  am 
Mr.  O'Meagher,  S.J.  You  all  know  S.J.  stand  for 
Societas  Jesuitium,  or  Company  of  Jesus.  Now,  keep 
these  letters  in  your  mind  and  think  of  all  the  other  things 
connected  with  the  lesson  they  can  stand  for,  as  Sublime 
Jupiter,  Smiling  Juno.  .  .  .  You,  Fallon,  can  you  suggest 
anything?  Come  now,  words  beginning  S.J.  mentioned 
in  Ovid." 

"  Silly  Owl,  sir." 

"  Fallon,  you  never  attend  to  what  I  am  saying. 
Hold  out  your  hand."  Three  hurried  cracks  and  a  crash 
on  an  ink-bottle  followed. 

"  Hazleton,  you.    Two  words  beginning  S.J." 

"  Sunny  Jim,  sir." 

"Hazleton,  you  are  almost  as  bad  as  Fallon.  Hold 
out  your  hand."  A  crash  on  Hazleton's  hand  and  an- 
other on  the  donor's  knees.  Adam  was  looking  con- 


THE  CHURCH  MILITANT  243 

templatively  at  Mr.  O'Meagher  and  thinking  what  a 
clumsy  Jack  in  the  Box  he  was  to  hit  himself  when  he 
meant  to  hit  Hazleton,  when  their  eyes  met.  "  Macfad- 
den,  I  suppose  you  have  not  been  attending  either.  Two 
words  beginning  S.J.  which  might  occur  to  you  after 
reading  what  we  have  read  just  now?" 

Adam  looked  at  the  passage  and  answered: — 

"  Supreme  Judge." 

Now  this  was  a  better  answer  than  Mr.  O'Meagher 
had  expected,  but  they  were  not  the  words  he  had  in 
his  own  mind  and  they  had  been  arrived  at  by  a  process 
which  was  not  his.  Adam  was  thinking  of  Ovid  and 
not  of  his  short  way  to  learn  Ovid.  So  he  sniffed  and 
said :  "  Those  the  only  words  you  can  think  of  beginning 
S.J.?" 

Adam  felt  himself  on  his  mettle,  and  said,  "Superb 
Joy." 

Mr.  O'Meagher  sniffed  twice  indignantly.  "  Superb 
Joy.  Whoever  heard  of  such  a  thing?  What  is  joy? 
Eating  and  drinking  and  so  on.  How  could  that  be 
superb?  That's  a  nice  reward  you  give  me  for  all  the 
trouble  I've  taken  trying  to  drive  some  method  into 
your  lazy  skull.  Have  you  no  better  notion  of  what 
S.J.  stand  for  ?  "  The  question  was  not  honestly  meant, 
he  anticipated  a  silly  answer  and  sniffed  before  it  came. 
But  when  it  came  it  astonished  him. 

"  S.J.,"  said  Adam,  feeling  himself  for  the  moment 
to  be  the  true  center  of  the  world,  "might  stand  for 
Sniffing  Jackal."  He  had  not  said  the  words  ere  he 
repented  them,  for  he  saw  Mr.  O'Meagher  dwindle  to 


244  ADAM  OF  DUBLIN 

nothing  in  front  of  him,  an  opponent  unworthy  of  his 
steel.  He  would  have  apologized  if  the  man  had  stood 
up  to  him,  but,  instead,  he  turned  away  to  his  desk, 
scribbled  feverishly  on  a  piece  of  paper,  and  called, 
"Joe  Carberry."  Joe  Carberry  had  the  biggest  ears  in 
the  class,  he  was  sure  to  win  a  Two  Pounds  Prize  for 
Books.  He  would  never  read  them,  because  he  could 
not  read  books  unless  some  one  was  there  to  reduce 
them  to  a  formula.  "  Joe  Carberry,  take  this  to  Father 
Tudor.  Be  quick  about  it.  Hustle !  " 

Adam  clenched  his  teeth.  He  was  in  for  it  now.  The 
jackal  knew  himself  for  what  he  was.  He  chuckled  at 
the  grim  humor  of  it.  Father  Tudor  saw  the  humor 
of  it  too.  He  ca'me  in  grinning  all  over,  with  little 
savage  snorts  to  cover  the  fact  that  he  was  laughing 
at  his  poor  jackal,  hurt  in  beating  up  the  game. 

"What's  this?  What's  this?"  he  said  repeatedly, 
pacing  up  and  down  and  round  the  room,  so  that  all 
the  boys  could  see  the  long  ferrule  waving  like  a  caudal 
appendage  behind  him.  "  What's  this  ?  Who  has  been 
twisting  the  lion's  tail?  I  have  the  name  of  the  person 
here  in  my  hand,  but  I  can't  quite  read  it  ...  because 
it  was  written  in  a  hurry.  The  master  of  this  class  is  a 
busy  man,  he  has  no  time  to  waste  on  writing  clearly 
the  names  of  foolish,  impudent,  wretched  little  boys.  He 
has  no  time  to  punish  them  himself.  He  has  to  send 
for  me,  whose  duty  it  is  to  punish  foolish,  impudent,  lazy, 
wretched  little  boys.  I  wonder  which  of  all  the  foolish, 
impudent,  lazy,  wretched  little  boys  I  see  before  me  I 
have  to  punish  now.  I  wonder  whose  name  it  is  written 


THE  CHURCH  MILITANT  245 

on  the  paper  in  my  hand.  It  is  not  your  own  name,  Joe 
Carberry,  is  it?" 

Joe  Carberry  answered  in  an  ecstasy  of  mirth  at 
Father  Tudor's  humor,  "No,  sir,  it  is  not.  Catch  me 
at  it." 

"  Be  serious,  Joe  Carberry,"  boomed  Father  Tudor, 
and,  turning  away,  his  ferrule  somehow  caught  the  young 
gentleman  across  the  shoulders.  Joe  Carberry  howled. 
Father  Tudor  burst  into  a  roar  of  leonine  laughter. 
"  Pride  goeth  before  a  fall,  Joe  Carberry.  Always  be 
serious  when  you  see  me.  You  never  know  what  may 
happen.  I  look  into  the  very  hearts  of  idle,  lazy,  im- 
pudent little  boys.  I  know  that  there  is  no  such  thing 
as  a  really  good  little  boy.  Boys  are  only  made  good  by 
men  like  myself  who  are  appointed  to  go  through  life 
finding  out  their  faults  and  punishing  them.  If  it  were  not 
for  men  like  myself  hell  would  be  full  of  such  idle,  lazy, 
impudent,  good-for-nothing  little  boys,  as  I  see  before 
me.  Why  doesn't  the  idle,  lazy,  impudent  little  boy  whose 
name  I  can't  read,  speak  up  like  a  man  and  save  me  from 
slapping  every  other  boy  as  he  deserves.  ...  I  will  ask 
Adam  Macfadden  to  tell  me,  if  he  knows,  why  a  certain 
idle,  impudent  little  boy  does  not  speak  up  like  a  man  and 
save  me  from  slapping  every  one  all  round."  He  strode 
over  to  Adam  and  tapped  the  desk  with  force.  "  Stand 
up,  Macfadden,  and  answer  me." 

Adam  stood  up,  trembling  but  unawed.  "I  am  not 
impudent  or  lazy,"  he  said. 

"  So !  "  said  Father  Tudor,  laying  down  his  ferrule  on 
the  desk  in  front  of  Adam.  "  I  have  made  a  mistake." 


246  ADAM  OF  DUBLIN 

He  turned  to  Mr.  O'Meagher,  with  affected  concern. 
"  It  seems  I  have  misread  your  letter.  Who  is  the 
impudent  boy  whom  you  think  it  essential  for  me  to 
punish  ?  " 

Mr.  O'Meagher  blushed  to  the  roots  of  his  hair,  his 
lively  eyes  fell  to  the  ground.  "  It  was  Adam  Macf ad- 
den's  name  I  put  in  my  note,  Father  Tudor,"  he  said 
faintly,  and  wished  he  were  back  in  Limerick  and  had 
never  heard  of  Father  Tudor.  It  was  not  so  long  ago 
that  Father  Tudor  had  hit  him,  he  was  not  quite  sure  he 
might  not  do  it  again  if  he  contraried  him. 

"  Ah,  I  see,"  said  Father  Tudor.  "  I  see.  My  im- 
pression was  right,  that  it  was  Macfadden  who  was  idle 
and  impudent."  He  made  a  parade  of  baring  his  right 
arm  to  the  elbow.  It  was  a  muscular  arm,  with  black 
down  on  it.  "  You  think  you  were  not  idle  and  im- 
pudent, Macfadden,  at  least  you  say  you  were  not  idle 
or  impertinent,  but,  unfortunately,  Macfadden,  Mr. 
O'Meagher  thinks  otherwise.  What  am  I  to  believe, 
Macfadden,  tell  me  that?"  He  affected  to  wait  pa- 
tiently for  the  reply  which  he  knew  would  not  come. 
Then  he  sighed  heavily,  "  I  see.  You  have  nothing  to 
say  in  your  defense.  Hold  out  your  hand."  He  lifted 
the  ferrule  high  in  the  air  as  Adam  held  out  his  hand, 
then,  the  ferrule  still  in  the  air,  Father  Tudor  went  on: 
"  I  think  I  have  seen  that  hand  before.  I  know  every 
hand  I  have  seen  before.  Where  was  it?  I  remember 
now.  Ah,  I  remember  now.  I  had  to  punish  you  for 
inattention  in  the  Preparatory  School.  You  see,  I 
forget  nothing.  You  are  the  only  boy  I  have  had  to 


THE  CHURCH  MILITANT  247 

punish  in  the  Preparatory  School.  I  see,  I  must  be 
severe  with  you.  Hold  your  hand  well  out.  I  don't 
want  to  break  any  ink-bottles."  He  gave  the  ferrule  two 
preliminary  waves  in  the  air  then,  just  as  Adam  braced 
his  strength  to  meet  it,  he  lowered  it  and  said  to  Mr. 
O'Meagher,  "  Let  me  see,  for  what  exactly  was  it  you 
wished  me  to  punish  Macfadden?"  The  reply  was  in- 
audible but  Father  Tudor  answered  his  own  question. 
"  Ah,  yes,  of  course,  idle  and  impudent."  Up  went  the 
ferrule  again  and  came  down  on  the  instant  with  enough 
force  to  drive  the  knuckles  of  Adam's  left  hand  against 
the  back  of  his  desk.  "You  clumsy  fellow,"  boomed 
Father  Tudor.  "Why  don't  you  hold  your  hand  out 
properly?  Keep  it  up,  keep  it  up."  He  flicked  the 
fingers  with  the  ferrule  as  he  carried  it  upwards  to  wave 
once  more  in  the  air.  Adam  met  the  blazing  red  eyes 
as  defiantly  as  he  could,  thinking  to  himself,  "  Perhaps 
God  will  strike  him  dead  now,  now  He  has  him  surely ! " 
A  change  came  over  Father  Tudor's  face,  the  grimace 
of  rage  melted  into  an  almost  more  hateful  grin.  He 
pulled  out  his  watch  and  dropped  the  ferrule.  "  Eleven 
o'clock,"  he  said.  "  I'm  sorry,  Mr.  O'Meagher,  but  I've 
no  more  time  to  deal  with  this  wretched,  idle,  impudent 
boy  now."  He  struck  Adam  with  the  side  of  the  ferrule 
across  the  shoulders.  "Out  there,  by  the  wall,  Mac- 
fadden, and  stand  there  until  I  have  time  to  deal  with 
you  further.  I  must  apologize  to  you,  Mr.  O'Meagher, 
for  this  delay.  You  will  understand  that  it  is  for  the 
best.  You  know  me." 

"  Yes,  Father  Tudor,"  said  Mr.  O'Meagher,  and  meekly 


248  ADAM  OF  DUBLIN 

opened  the  door  for  the  splendid  despot,  who  had  ruled 
over  his  whole  life,  to  pass  out. 

Adam  took  his  stand  defiantly  by  the  wall.  His  left 
hand  felt  as  though  a  brick  had  fallen  on  it  from  a 
height,  the  knuckles  were  blue  where  they  had  struck 
against  his  desk.  He  could  not  remember  that  he  had 
ever  been  hit  so  hard  by  any  one  before,  and  he  knew 
that  worse  was  to  follow  it.  But,  for  Father  Innocent's 
sake,  he  was  going  to  bear  it.  He  was  partly  to  blame, 
since  he  had  lost  his  temper  with  Tim  O'Meagher  and 
cheeked  him.  He  had  no  right  to  do  that.  O'Meagher 
was  not  really  such  a  bad  chap,  he  was  merely  a  cad 
and  a  bit  of  an  idiot.  He  couldn't  teach  but  he  meant 
well. 

Eleven  to  twelve  was  mathematics,  taken  by  Mr. 
Hagan,  a  lay  master.  He  and  Adam  were  pretty  good 
friends.  "Sit  down,  Macfadden,"  he  said.  "We're 
late.  Not  my  fault." 

"  Please,  sir,"  Adam  answered  huskily,  "  Father  Tudor 
told  me  to  stand  until  he  came  back." 

Mr.  Hagan  raised  his  eyebrows.  "You  out  for  pun- 
ishment ! "  He  whistled,  but  said  nothing  more.  It 
would  have  been  as  much  as  his  place  was  worth  to  fly 
in  the  face  of  the  Prefect  of  Studies. 

A  quarter  past  eleven,  said  St.  George's  bells,  half- 
past,  a  quarter  to  twelve.  Mr.  Hagan  noticed  that  the 
flush  had  gone  from  Adam's  cheeks,  he  was  pale,  and  his 
knees  were  knocking.  "  Father  Tudor  must  have  for- 
gotten you,  Macfadden,"  he  said.  "You'd  better  sit 
down." 


THE  CHURCH  MILITANT  249 

"  Thank  you,  sir,"  Adam  muttered,  and  obeyed.  Now 
that  the  hot  fit  was  spent  he  felt  depressed  and  miser- 
able. His  left  hand  was  still  insensible,  both  hands  would 
be  insensible  before  the  day  was  out.  He  did  not  care 
about  that  if  only  he  could  get  it  over.  Waiting  for 
Tudor  made  him  feel  sick.  Sick  in  his  head  and  in  his 
entrails. 

Twelve  o'clock  called  the  bells  of  St.  George's  Church. 
The  class  broke  up  for  the  luncheon  interval.  The  boys 
made  for  the  door.  He  rose  languidly  and  followed. 
He  felt  frightened  of  the  stairs,  but  he  got  down  them 
somehow.  At  the  bottom  a  cuffed  arm  seized  him,  and 
a  voice  boomed,  "Who  gave  you  leave  to  come  down- 
stairs?" 

"I  thought  ..." 

"  Don't  think.  Upstairs  again,  and  don't  dare  to  stir 
from  the  place  I  put  you  until  I  have  punished  you  for 
your  impudence  to  Mr.  O'Meagher." 

If  Adam  had  not  felt  so  ill  he  would  have  bolted  for 
freedom  then  and  there.  But  Father  Tudor  had  him 
firmly  by  the  arm  and  he  had  no  strength  to  resist. 
Thoroughly  shaken  he  crawled  upstairs  again  and  drifted 
back  to  his  place,  leaning  against  the  hot  water  pipes 
between  the  windows  from  which  you  could  see  St. 
George's  Church.  The  bells  struck  a  quarter  past  twelve. 
The  boys  were  coming  upstairs  again,  and  taking  their 
luncheon  bread-and-butter  out  of  newspaper  wrappings. 
The  sight  of  the  others  eating  made  him  feel  deadly 
sick.  He  dropped  on  his  knees.  "Will  you  look  at 
Macfadderi?"  some  one  cried.  He  felt  a  score  of 


250  ADAM  OF  DUBLIN 

eyes  riveted  on  him,  and  quickly  regained  his 
feet. 

"  Were  you  saying  your  prayers  ?  "  one  boy  asked. 

Adam  nodded. 

"  Praying  to  be  let  off  ?  "  said  Fallon  contemptuously. 

Adam  did  not  reply;  he  did  not  condescend  to  tell 
Fallon  or  any  one  else,  that  his  prayer  had  been  that 
God  might  save  him  from  the  disgrace  of  being  sick  in 
the  classroom  and  that  He  might  condemn  Father  Tudor, 
once  and  for  all,  to  eternal  perdition.  As  he  stood  up 
he  had  a  momentary  illusion  that  the  first  part  of  his 
petition  had  been  answered ;  about  the  second  he  was  less 
hopeful. 

Half-past  twelve — writing  class;  another  lay  master 
who  had  no  interest  in  Adam  nor  Adam  in  him.  A 
quarter  to  one.  One.  Mr.  Hagan  reappeared  to  take 
the  Elementary  Science  Class.  As  he  passed  Adam  he 
paused  to  say  under  his  breath,  "  I'm  sorry,  but  Father 
Tudor  has  forbidden  me  point  blank  to  let  you  sit  down. 
You  do  understand  it's  not  my  fault." 

"  Thank  your  honor,"  said  Adam,  "  and  God  bless  you." 
He  wondered  why  Mr.  Hagan  looked  at  him  as  if  he 
were  mad.  Perhaps  he  was  going  mad.  His  head  felt 
very  queer.  He  had  been  standing  a  long  time.  But 
he  had  been  used  to  that.  He  had  stood  for  hours 
outside  the  Gresham.  That  was  in  the  fresh  air.  A 
quarter  past  one.  He  was  very  hot  about  the  head  and 
hips,  very  cold  about  the  shoulders  and  feet.  He  hoped 
he  was  not  going  to  be  sick  after  all.  A  quarter  to  two. 
Mr.  Hagan  was  trying  to  whisper  something  to  him. 


THE  CHURCH  MILITANT  251 

What  was  it  ?  Oh,  something  about  Tudor.  Tudor  was 
coming,  was  he  ?  Let  him  come.  The  sooner  the  better. 
He  did  not  feel  quite  so  sick  now.  Two  o'clock.  Mr. 
Hagan  was  gone  but  Father  Tudor  was  not  yet  come. 
Mr.  O'Meagher,  very  subdued  and  uneasy,  was  taking 
the  last  class  of  the  day;  he  sedulously  avoided  a  glance 
at  any  one  in  Adam's  neighborhood.  A  quarter  past 
two,  half-past.  Only  half  an  hour  more.  His  feet  were 
asleep,  he  felt  clammy  all  over,  but  he  was  buoyed  up 
by  the  thought  that  the  day  was  nearly  done  and  that 
even  for  Father  Innocent's  sake  he  would  never  risk 
passing  such  a  day  again.  He  did  not  count  to  end  his 
life  in  Richmond  Asylum. 

A  quarter  to  three.  The  big-eared  boys  were  begin- 
ning to  pack  up  their  books  to  go  home.  He  edged  down 
softly  towards  the  window  on  his  left  and  shot  a  glance 
at  St.  George's  Church.  Joy,  Superb  Joy,  it  was  seven 
minutes  to  three.  Soon  he  would  be  looking  at  the 
other  face  of  that  clock  from  his  own  dear  little 
room.  .  .  .  The  door  clicked,  the  class  hushed.  Father 
Tudor's  voice  boomed:  "What's  this?  What's  this? 
Who  is  that  boy  I  see  looking  out  of  the  window  ?  " 

So  he  had  waited  till  the  end.  What  was  it  that  his 
mother  had  once  called  somebody,  when  he  was  a  little 
chap,  before  he  sold  newspapers  ?  A  "  crawling  snake." 
Tudor  was  that  and  many  other  things  besides.  At  the 
moment  he  looked  like  a  mad  bull  with  his,  "What's 
this,  what's  this?"  Anyhow  this  was  going  to  be  the 
end  of  him  so  far  as  Adam  was  concerned.  Since  God 
had  not  damned  him  perhaps  he  really  was  only  a  poor 


252  ADAM  OF  DUBLIN 

lunatic,  more  wretched  in  himself  than  with  all  his 
perverse  ingenuity  he  could  make  others.  Adam  held  out 
his  hand  that  he  might  let  him  vent  his  wrath  on  him  and 
be  done  with  it.  He  knew  Father  Innocent  would  never 
ask  him  to  come  back  to  Belvedere  after  to-day.  He 
waited  for  Father  Tudor  to  strike,  but  Father  Tudor  did 
not  strike.  He  began  to  feel  sick  again,  in  spite  of  him- 
self he  trembled,  partly  through  fear  of  being  sick, 
partly  through  fear  of  Father  Tudor.  That  fear  had 
infected  the  whole  class. 

Three  o'clock  rang  out  cheerily  on  St.  George's  bells. 
All  down  the  corridor  there  was  a  burst  of  clamor 
from  boys  released  from  school.  But,  in  the  Third  of 
Grammar,  none  stirred.  Father  Tudor  stared  at  Adam 
as  though  he  were  considering  where  to  commence  an 
experiment  in  vivisection. 

"  Mr.  O'Meagher,"  he  boomed.  "  I  am  sorry  to  have 
to  keep  you  and  the  class  in  on  this  fellow  Macfadden's 
account.  But,  sometimes,  we  have  to  make  a  public 
example.  So  I  know  you  will  blame  him  and  not  me. 
I  would,  of  course,  prefer  to  let  him  off."  He  produced 
the  ferrule  and  laughed  loudly.  The  class  tittered  to 
please  him,  but  quietly  lest  they  should  share  the  fate 
of  Joe  Carberry.  "  Mr.  O'Meagher,  can  you  give  me 
any  reason  for  letting  Macfadden  off?  We  know  that 
you  have  told  us  that  he  is  impudent  and  idle,  but, 
perhaps,  you  can  recall  something  in  his  favor.  Has 
he,  for  example,  ever  shown  any  industry  or  attention  ?  " 
He  looked  at  Adam.  "  Now  I'm  going  to  hear  if  there 
is  any  loophole  of  escape  for  you,"  he  said,  and  laid  the 


THE  CHURCH  MILITANT  253 

ferrule  on  the  hot  water  pipe  beside  Adam  so  that  he 
was  tempted  to.  seize  it  and  strike  him  across  the  face 
with  it.  But  he  waited  patiently  for  the  comedy  of 
Father  Tudor's  mercy  to  play  itself  out. 

"I've  nothing  to  say  for  or  against  Macfadden, 
Father  Tudor,"  quavered  Mr.  O'Meagher.  "  He's  neither 
the  best  nor  the  worst  boy  in  the  class.  And  he  knows 
his  lessons  in  a  way  that  is  not  very  satisfactory  to  me, 
but  I  can't  say  that  he  is  habitually  idle.  In  fact  he 
is  rather  above  than  below  the  average." 

"  I  see,"  boomed  Father  Tudor.  "  Clever,  but  careless 
and  disobedient.  Just  the  sort  of  boy  it  is  my  special 
function  to  keep  on  the  right  path,  that  very  narrow 
path  which  all  boys  leave  if  they  get  the  chance."  He 
caught  up  the  ferrule  and  swung  it  about  him  as  he 
might  swing  an  Indian  club.  "  Let  me  see.  It  was  at 
your  Latin  lesson  this  morning,  I  think  you  told  me, 
Macfadden  behaved  so  abominably,  Mr.  O'Meagher?" 

"  It  was  then  I  thought  I  had  reasonable  ground  to 
complain  of  his  conduct,  Father  Tudor." 

"  I  see.  Macfadden  considers  Latin  unworthy  of  his 
attention.  Is  there  any  subject  in  which  he  is  good 
enough  to  take  an  interest?"  Father  Tudor's  voice  was 
genially  judicial,  but  the  ferrule  swung  rustling  against 
his  soutane  and  rapping  against  Adam's  knees. 

Mr.  O'Meagher's  chief  desire  now  was  to  get  Adam 
off  if  he  could ;  at  all  events  to  end  the  suspense  melting 
his  own  marrow.  "  He's  very  good  indeed  at  Christian 
Doctrine,"  said  he. 

Father  Tudor  frowned.    "  Hum,"  he  boomed  heavily. 


254  ADAM  OF  DUBLIN 

"  He  Knows  his  Catechism  and  yet  he  remains  idle  and 
impudent.  It  is  incredible.  I  must  see,  Macfadden,  if 
you  really  know  your  Catechism.  You  have  only  to 
answer  me  one  elementary  question  and  I  will,  perhaps, 
let  you  off  your  punishment  or  part  of  your  punishment. 
At  all  events,  not  to  waste  the  time  of  others,  if  you 
answer  correctly  I'll  let  you  go  home  now.  You  will  be 
glad  of  that,  won't  you?  " 

"Yes,  sir,"  said  Adam,  pulling  himself  together  at 
the  thought  that  he  was  really  to  go  free  at  last.  Sick 
as  he  felt  he  did  not  think  Tudor  could  puzzle  him  in 
the  Catechism.  He  had  learned  it  by  heart  at  the  Mater 
Hospital.  Father  Innocent  had  explained  any  difficul- 
ties that  had  bothered  him  and  no  one  had  ever  tripped 
him  up  in  it  at  Belvedere.  Even  Mr.  O'Meagher  had 
just  borne  witness  to  his  proficiency.  ...  If  only  his  head 
did  not  ache. 

"  Tell  me,  Macfadden,"  said  Father  Tudor,  tapping  his 
own  left  hand  with  the  ferrule,  "  if  you  really  know 
your  Catechism.  How  many  persons  'are  there  in 
God?" 

"  Three,"  cried  Adam  joyfully,  and  wondered  why  Joe 
Carberry  sniggered. 

"Is  that  supposed  to  be  an  answer  to  my  question?" 
Father  Tudor 's  ferrule  flew  up  as  his  voice  thundered, 
"Three  what?" 

"  Three  persons,  of  course,"  Adam  cried  again. 
"  Really  distinct  and  equal  in  all  things :  the  Father,  the 
Son,  and  the  Holy  Ghost." 

"  Nonsense,  nonsense.    Hold  out  your  hand."    Down 


THE  CHURCH  MILITANT  255 

came  the  ferrule  with  the  wrath  of  Father  Tudor's  God 
behind  it. 

It  seemed  to  Adam,  after  the  third  stroke,  that  things 
became  a  blur.  His  whole  body  was  dull  with  pain,  at 
any  moment  he  would  be  sick.  One,  two,  three,  four, 
five,  six,  seven,  eight,  nine,  ten,  eleven,  twelve. 

Father  Tudor  stopped  breathless  and  panted  between 
the  words,  as  he  roared  "  Now  perhaps  you  will  re- 
member that  in  God  there  are  not  three  persons,  but  three 
Divine  Persons." 

And  Adam,  lifting  his  clenched  hands  above  his  head, 
shrieked  in  his  face,  "  Damn  you  and  your  three  Divine 
Persons." 

A  deadly  silence  reigned  in  the  Third  of  Grammar 
classroom  as  the  bells  of  St.  George's  Church  tolled  a 
quarter  past  three. 

Then  Adam's  entrails  followed  his  spirit  in  revolt  and 
he  vomited  over  Father  Tudor's  soutane  and  boots. 


CHAPTER  XXV 
ADAM  CROSSES  THE  LIFFEY 

THE  class  broke  up  in  confusion.  "  Disgusting  raga- 
muffin ! "  bellowed  Father  Tudor,  and,  like  a  mediaeval 
demon  exorcised  by  holy  water,  he  fled  from  the  room, 
leaving  his  ferrule  behind  him.  In  an  instant  Fallen 
had  hidden  it  somewhere  round  his  waist.  Mr. 
O'Meagher  said  nothing.  He  was  hopelessly  out  of  his 
depths.  "  You'd  better  be  off  and  don't  let  this  happen 
again,"  he  said  to  Adam,  who  answered  sullenly,  "  It 
never  will." 

Somehow,  Adam,  not  troubling  to  collect  his  books, 
crawled  down  to  the  yard,  found  some  water  to  put 
on  his  face  and  hands,  dried  himself  in  his  handker- 
chief, and  walked  as  quickly  as  he  could  through 
the  covered  way  to  the  street.  He  was  not  fully 
conscious  of  what  he  did,  he  crossed  to  George's 
Street. 

Fallen  overtook  him.  "  That  was  grand  what  you  did 
to  Tudor,"  he  said. 

"  I  couldn't  help  it,"  Adam  explained,  almost  in- 
audibly. 

"Go  on,"  cried  Fallen.  "Don't  spoil  it  by  saying  it 
was  an  accident.  All  the  decent  fellows  think  it  was 
grand.  Sullivan  says  he'll  try  to  do  it  to-morrow  if 
256 


ADAM  CROSSES  THE  LIFFEY  257 

he  can.  How  did  you  manage  to  do  it  just  at  the  right 
moment  ?  " 

"  I  tell  you  it  was  an  accident,"  Adam  groaned,  sick 
again  at  the  thought  of  it. 

"  Well,  it  was  a  jolly  splendid  accident,  that's  all  I 
can  say,"  said  Fallen.  "You  got  Tudor  fine,"  and  he 
thought  of  hurrying  off  after  his  fellows  to  tell  them 
that  Adam  was  not  really  the  Homeric  champion  they 
supposed. 

"  Anyhow,"  said  Fallon.  "  You  did  mean  to  damn  the 
Blessed  Trinity,  didn't  you." 

"  No,"  said  Adam,  "  I  did  not." 

"Aren't  the  three  Divine  Persons  the  same  as  the 
Blessed  Trinity?  I  thought  they  were?" 

"  Yes,"  said  Adam. 

"Well,  you  damned  them  right  enough,  for  I  heard 
you.  '  Damn  you  and  your  three  Divine  Persons,'  said 
you  to  Tudor.  It  was  grand.  You'd  think  he  was  a 
Divine  person  himself,  the  way  he  looked  at  you." 

"I  didn't  mean  to  say  that,"  said  Adam.  "I  must 
have  said  it  just  as  we  may  say  anything  in  a  rage." 

"  It  sounded  grand.  '  Damn  you  and  your  Divine  Per- 
sons,' "  Fallon  insisted. 

"But  it's  pure  nonsense,"  Adam  remonstrated,  with 
equal  pertinacity.  "  It  doesn't  mean  anything." 

"  I  don't  see  that.  It  seems  to  me  no  end  of  a  jolly 
awful  curse." 

"But,  how  could  you  damn  God?" 

"  Why  not,  if  you  get  the  chance.  Just  as  He  does 
you  if  He  gets  the  chance." 


258  ADAM  OF  DUBLIN 

"  But  no  one  can  damn  God  but  God  Himself." 

"  Oh,"  said  Fallon.  "  I  never  thought  of  that.  I  sup- 
pose it  is  rather  blatherumskite  when  you  come  to  think 
of  it.  But  it  sounded  grand  when  you  said  it.  Joe  Car- 
berry  was  frightened  out  of  his  wits.  Anyhow,  I've  got 
old  Tudor's  pandybat  under  my  coat.  I'll  sell  it  to  you 
for  sixpence." 

"  Thank  you,"  said  Adam.  "  I've  had  quite  enough  of 
it  already." 

At  the  north  end  of  Marlborough  Street  they  parted 
company,  Fallon  going  west  along  Great  Britain  or 
Parnell  Street.  "  Where  are  you  going  ?  And  what 
have  you  done  with  your  books?"  he  asked,  as  a  last 
question. 

"I  don't  know,"  was  Adam's  last  answer.  Fallen's 
questions  had  steadied  him  a  little  bit,  but  he  believed 
himself  to  be  going  to  Butt  Bridge.  He  could  never 
face  Father  Innocent  and  tell  him  he  had  damned  Father 
Tudor  and  his  three  Divine  Persons.  It  was  only  yes- 
terday he  had  promised  to  do  everything  in  his  power 
to  keep  his  patience  with  him.  If  he  could  have  held 
his  tongue  and  borne  his  torture  as  Father  Innocent, 
himself,  would  have  borne  it !  He  felt  it  was  despicable 
of  him  to  lose  his  temper  with  Father  Tudor.  It  wasn't 
his  slapping  him  he  cared  about,  that  was  mere  brutality 
such  as  he  had  long  suffered  unquestioningly  from  his 
own  father,  it  was  the  beastly  malice  of  keeping  him 
cooped  up  in  the  classroom  and  standing  against  the 
wall,  to  be  mocked  at  by  sneaking  fools,  like  Joe  Car- 
berry.  It  was  that  had  driven  him  to  despair  and  made 


ADAM  CROSSES  THE  LIFFEY  259 

him  care  no  longer  whither  he  went  so  long  as  he  never 
went  back  to  Belvedere. 

He  moved  on  down  Marlborough  Street,  hurrying 
past  the  shop  where  Mr.  O'Toole  now  carried  on  some 
mysterious  business,  ostensibly  connected  with  news- 
papers, sporting  papers ;  there  were  papers  in  the  window, 
oddly  called  The  Police  News,  with  pictures  of  prize- 
fighters, race-horses,  murderers,  and  ballet  girls.  He 
shared  the  premises  with  an  odd  sort  of  apothecary, 
some  of  whose  wares  were  also  in  the  window;  pills 
that  looked  like  small  shot  and  readymade  bandages  and 
bits  of  hose-pipe.  The  window  frames  were  lined  with 
picture  post  cards  of  the  Pro-Cathedral  or  Nelson's 
Pillar  or  the  Parnell  Memorial  or  fashionable  ladies  ad- 
justing their  garters  and  winking  at  you.  It  was  a  queer 
shop,  the  Sporting  and  Medical  Stores.  Two  Trinity 
boys  came  out  of  it,  sheepishly,  angrily,  jingling  silver 
coins  in  their  hands.  "  I'll  swear  he's  done  us  over  the 
S.P.,"  said  one. 

These  words  caught  Adam's  ear  as  he  scuttled  past, 
and  told  him,  what  he  ought  to  have  guessed  before, 
that  his  godfather  had  turned  bookmaker.  That  was  the 
business  he  carried  on  under  cover  of  the  newspapers 
and  the  picture  post  cards.  Adam  felt  a  sudden  zest 
in  life  at  this  discovery.  Mr.  O'Toole  could  humbug 
the  police  but  he  could  not  deceive  him.  Still,  it  did 
not  give  Adam  courage  to  face  Father  Innocent  and 
tell  him  that  he  had  been  guilty  of  a  kind  of  blasphemy. 
For  he  had  been  guilty  of  a  kind  of  blasphemy  though 
he  hadn't  meant  it.  Fallen  thought  he  meant  it,  so  did 


260  ADAM  OF  DUBLIN 

that  sneaking  jackass  Joe  Carberry.  He  could  not  face 
Father  Innocent,  he  could  not  return  to  St.  George's 
Place,  he  could  not  go  to  Pleasant  Street;  but  he  no 
longer  wanted  to  drown  himself.  He  wanted  to  live,  he 
wanted  even,  immediately,  to  eat  and  drink.  He  had  a 
whole  florin  in  his  pocket.  He  would  go  forthwith  to 
eat  and  drink. 

Where  to  eat  and  drink?  That  was  the  imperative 
question  surpassing  even  the  Belvedere  crisis  and  the 
peril  to  his  soul.  The  outsides  of  many  restaurants 
were  known  to  him,  but  the  interior  of  only  one.  He 
did  not  know  the  name  of  it  but  it  was  at  the  other  end 
of  Westmoreland  Street,  near  College  Street  police  sta- 
tion. Father  Innocent  had  brought  him  there  once 
because  it  was  a  vegetarian  place  where  you  could  go 
on  Fridays;  besides,  it  was  a  grand  place  where  Mr. 
O'Meagher  and  all  sorts  of  famous  people  went.  And 
not  so  expensive  as  you  would  expect;  you  could  have 
a  good  meal  for  sixpence.  He  scuttled  past  the  Pro- 
Cathedral,  as  he  had  scuttled  past  Mr.  O'Toole's,  turned 
down  Sackville  Place,  and  took  the  tram  from  Nelson's 
Pillar  to  Tom  Moore's  statue  by  Trinity  College.  Even 
empty-bellied  and  rather  sea-sick,  it  was  pleasant  to 
ride  on  the  top  of  a  tram  on  a  balmy  February  after- 
noon, even  in  a  state  of  mortal  sin  it  was  jolly  to  risk 
your  life  jumping  off  it  before  it  slowed  down.  And, 
how  grand  it  was  to  march  into  a  tea-shop,  or  a  cafe 
as  the  French  called  it,  all  alone  and  order  a  meal  for 
yourself  without  any  intermediary  between  you  and  the 
pretty  and  witty  young  lady  who  could  see  that  you 


ADAM  CROSSES  THE  LIFFEY  261 

got  whatever  you  might  choose  from  a  list  you  could 
take  half  an  hour  to  read  and  perhaps  not  then  under- 
stand the  quarter  of  it.  Adam  was  quick  to  choose. 
"A  pot  of  tea  and  two  portions  of  buttered  toast," 
said  he. 

"  Two  portions,"  said  the  witty,  pretty  one,  noting 
it  down.  "Dear  me,  what  a  hungry  young  gentleman 
you  must  be." 

"  So  would  you  be,"  said  Adam,  "  if  you  were  me." 

"  Mark,  learn,  and  inwardly  digest,"  said  a  not  very 
young  mian  sitting  opposite.  He  addressed  the  girl, 
but  Adam  was  sure  he  had  met  him  somewhere  before. 

"  Indeed,  now,  Mr.  Macarthy,  you  ought  to  be  ashamed 
of  yourself  talking  about  my  digestion  before  the  lad," 
said  the  girl,  and  went  off. 

"I  hope  you  are  not  shocked  by  my  conversation." 
He  addressed  himself  this  time  to  Adam;  who  was  look- 
ing at  him  with  painful  curiosity,  for,  surely  it  was  on 
his  lap  that  Josephine  O'Meagher  had  once  sat,  he  who 
figured  in  a  well-remembered  photograph. 

"  I  am  not,"  said  Adam.  "  I'm  used  to  all  sorts,  though 
I've  not  been  here  before  but  once.  I  came  with  Father 
Innocent  Feeley  of  Marlborough  Street.  I  dare  say  you 
know  him." 

The  man  nodded,  but  only  said,  "  Nice  old  houses  in 
Marlborough  Street." 

"A  bit  slummy  it's  getting  now,"  said  Adam  judi- 
ciously. "  It's  not  what  it  was." 

"You  mean  before  they  built  the  Pro-Cathedral?" 

"  Sure,  that's  a  hundred  years  old,"  said  Adam. 


262  ADAM  OF  DUBLIN 

"And  how  old  are  you,  if  the  question  is  not  im- 
pertinent ?  " 

"I'm  going  on  for  thirteen,"  Adam  confessed,  and 
further  conversation  was  interrupted  by  the  arrival  of 
his  tea  and  toast.  While  eating  and  drinking  he  studied 
the  face  of  the  man  opposite.  He  was  clean-shaven, 
with  smallish  blue  eyes,  flat  nose,  and  hair  white  as 
snow,  yet  he  gave,  what  Adam  thought,  a  regrettable 
impression  of  youth.  There  was  nothing  distinctive 
about  his  dress,  more  noticeable  was  the  attire  of  the 
man  next  him,  frock  coat,  wide  opening  to  his  double- 
breasted  waistcoat  disclosing  an  enormous  bright  crim- 
son scarf,  but  his  face  was  hidden  by  a  newspaper  held 
by  long,  thin  hands ;  the  hands  of  a  nervous,  still  lively, 
old  man.  It  occurred  to  Adam  that  he  had  seen  those 
hands  and  that  red  scarf  somewhere,  but,  before  he 
could  recall  where,  Mr.  Macarthy  asked  him,  "  You  find 
Marlborough  Street  changed  much  in  your  time  ?  " 

"  It  gets  worse  every  day,"  said  Adam.  "  I  remember 
the  time  when  my  father  said  it  was  a  very  good 
address." 

"  And  what  does  he  say  now  ?  "  Mr.  Macarthy  asked, 
without  a  smile. 

"  He  says  nothing  now,"  Adam  answered  simply. 
"  He's  dead." 

"  I  beg  your  pardon  for  my  curiosity,"  said  Mr.  Ma- 
carthy, and  asked  no  more  questions.  Adam  would  have 
liked  him  to  go  on  but  he  finished  his  cup  and  took  his 
bill,  his  gloves,  his  hat,  and  stick.  Adam  thought  he 
might  be  any  age  from  twenty  to  fifty.  He  laid  his 


ADAM  CROSSES  THE  LIFFEY  263 

hand  on  the  arm  of  the  man  behind  the  newspaper.  "  I 
must  get  back  to  the  library." 

The  newspaper  dropped  and  disclosed  the  white  mus- 
tache and  chin  tuft,  the  close-cropped  white  hair,  the 
ruddy  complexion  and  still  bright  eyes  of  "  that  French- 
man." "  Ah,  pardon,  pardon,"  he  cried.  "  I  was  lost 
in  the  speech  of  Wilson;  he  is  a  bourgeois  but  a  great 
man.  What  is  your  Lloyd  George  compared  to  him  ?  " 

"You  are  mistaken  in  supposing  that  Mr.  Lloyd 
George  belongs  to  me,"  Mr.  Macarthy  answered  gravely. 
"I  am  not  a  man  of  property  nor  am  I  a  great  man, 
but  a  bourgeois." 

"A  bourgeois!  You!"  cried  the  Frenchman.  "My 
dear  Macarthy,  you  are  a  man  of  no  time  or  place.  You 
are  a  divine  person  ?  " 

"  Which  ?  "  asked  the  other  man,  but  did  not  wait  for 
an  answer. 

That  Frenchman  looked  at  Adam,  not  sharing  his 
astonishment  at  their  meeting,  and  asked,  "Which  of 
the  divine  persons,  think  you,  is  our  friend  like?" 

"  I  wonder,"  said  Adam,  "  if  you  mean  he's  the  third." 

"Good,"  said  that  Frenchman.  "Very  good.  I  see 
there  is  some  elementary  education  in  Ireland  after  all. 
Your  learning  has  not  been  for  nothing,  it  would  seem. 
Have  you  learnt  yet  what  is  love  and  what  is  liberty, 
or  are  you  wise  only  in  Divinity?  And,  tell  me  also, 
why  have  you  been  crying." 

Adam,  with  his  mouth  full  of  toast,  began  by  telling 
him  why  he  had  been  crying  and  ended  by  confessing 
that  he  no  longer  thought  of  drowning  himself  but  of 


264  ADAM  OF  DUBLIN 

stowing  himself  away  in  the  Bristol  boat  and  working 
his  passage  overseas.  With  his  tummy  warmed  with  tea 
and  his  headache  gone,  this  seemed  to  him  an  adventure 
of  some  promise. 

"  It  is  interesting,"  said  the  Frenchman,  "  to  go '  to 
sea.  That  would  say  it  is  more  interesting  to  go  to  sea 
than  to  go  to  Belvedere.  But  what  of  our  poor,  dear 
Miss  Gannon?  What  of  poor  myself  if  I  have  to  tell 
her  that  I  met  you  here  on  your  way  to  sea  and  gave 
you  no  good  advice  to  return  to  her?" 

"  I'm  sorry  for  Miss  Gannon,"  Adam  answered.  "  But 
I  don't  feel  that  she  matters  very  much  to  anybody  ..." 

"  You  say  that,  because  you  do  not  think  her  beau- 
tiful." 

"  I  don't,"  retorted  Adam.  "  I  say  it  because  shd's  as 
hard  as  nails.  She  won't  care  much  more  than  my 
mother  will  care." 

"  Ach,"  said  that  Frenchman.  "  To  talk  like  that  is 
to  break  the  heart." 

"  The  only  one  who  really  cares  a  lot  about  me,"  said 
Adam,  "is  Father  Innocent  Feeley." 

That  Frenchman  nodded.  "  You  have  made  me  won- 
der whether  you  were  old  enough  to  see  that.  You 
who  could  go  to  sea  without  asking  his  blessing,  without 
bidding  him  farewell !  " 

"  He  might  have  stopped  me,"  said  Adam,  but  tears 
of  shame  and  regret  were  welling  in  his  eyes,  and  one 
fell  among  the  toast  crumbs  on  his  plate.  He  added 
pitifully,  "  I'm  not  gone  yet." 

That  Frenchman's  countenance  softened. 


ADAM  CROSSES  THE  LIFFEY  265 

"I  do  not  know  your  Father  Innocent  Feeley,  and 
I  am  one  of  those  who  declare  Clericalism  to  be  their 
enemy,  but,  I  think,  I  will  take  you  now  to  call  upon 
Father  Innocent."  He  called  for  Adam's  bill  to  be 
added  to  his  own  and  led  him  unresisting  from  the 
room.  In  the  street  he  waved  his  stick.  "  We  shall  drive 
upon  a  car.  That  will  be  a  merriment  to  distract  us 
from  sad  thoughts."  As  the  car  pulled  alongside  he 
went  on,  "  We'll  both  sit  together  to  help  each  other 
to  hold  on."  And  to  the  jarvey  he  said,  "  Drive  to  that 
horrible  building  in  Marlborough  Street  they  call  the 
Pro-Cathedral,  and  be  quick  about  it,  for  I'm  an  atheist." 

The  man  touched  his  hat  and  grinned.  "  Sure  I  know 
your  honor  well,"  he  declared.  "  And  there's  not  a  word 
of  truth  in  it." 


CHAPTER  XXVI 
FATHER  INNOCENT  GOES 

NOTWITHSTANDING  the  betterment  in  his  fortunes  the 
joys  of  car  driving  had  not  yet  paled  for  Adam,  and  that 
brief  scurry  from  College  Green  to  Marlborough  Street 
had  one  fine  thrill  in  it,  for,  at  that  very  spot  where 
Father  Innocent  had  consulted  the  oracular  Mr.  Flood, 
as  to  Adam's  poetical  merit,  they  encountered  Father 
Tudor  and  the  wheels  missed  his  toes  by  a  bare  six 
inches,  the  step  grazed  his  frock  coat  and  he  stared  after 
them  to  see  that  Frenchman  wave  his  hand  to  him  re- 
assuringly. 

"We  nearly  had  that  fellow,  your  Honor,"  said  the 
carman,  with  sang-froid.  "  And  I  wouldn't  have  minded 
if  we'd  had  him-  altogether." 

"  You  know  him  ?  "  asked  that  Frenchman. 

"  Indeed  and  I  do  not,  your  honor,"  said  the  jarvey, 
"but  I  never  see  a  man  that  looks  like  that,  let  alone 
a  priest,  but  I  want  to  let  the  mare  trample  on  him." 

"Ach,"  said  that  Frenchman.  "You  are  an  artist, 
Mr.  Jarvey.  But  you  may  be  wrong.  I  am  an  anti- 
clericalist  but  there  are  good  priests.  And,  perhaps  the 
best  of  them  have  not  the  prettiest  faces." 

"  I'm  a  great  one  for  going  by  the  face,"  the  jarvey 
maintained.  "And  I've  never  been  wrong  yet."  He 
266 


FATHER  INNOCENT  GOES  267 

looked  at  Adam.     "What  did  you  make  of  him,  your 
honor  ?  " 

"  He  near  made  an  end  of  me  to-day,"  was  Adam's 
answer. 

"  Hey ! "  said  that  Frenchman.  "  So  it  was  our  dear 
Tudor.  I  guessed  it  the  way  he  looked  at  us.  But  it 
seemed  too  good  to  be  true." 

"What  did  I  tell  you?"  cried  the  jarvey  triumph- 
antly. 

Adam  had  taken  it  into  his  head  that  that  Frenchman 
would  be  present  at  his  interview  with  Father  Feeley, 
and,  perhaps,  take  it  upon  himself  to  explain  precisely 
what  had  happened  with  Father  Tudor  at  Belvedere; 
but  he  felt,  on  the  whole,  that  he  was  acting  for  the 
best,  in  leaving  him  alone  once  he  had  assured  himself 
that  Father  Innocent  was  at  home  and  could  see  him. 
He  then  remounted  the  car  and  was  carried  south  again, 
nor  did  he  exact  any  promise  from  Adam  to  repeat  to 
him  what  happened.  He  merely  said,  "  You  know  thirty 
steps  upwards  will  carry  you  out  of  any  trouble  at  St. 
George's  Place." 

1  Father  Innocent's  face  was  even  older  than  Adam  had 
ever  seen  it  before  to-day;  also  it  was  stern.  The  boy 
felt  that  the  worst  part  of  the  whole  day  was  to  come 
now.  But  that  Frenchman  had  given  him  courage  to 
face  it;  for  he  had  blamed  him  for  nothing  except  the 
hint  of  indifference  to  Father  Innocent's  feelings.  If 
he  looked  at  him  kindly  instead  of  with  reproof  he  would 
have  knelt  at  his  feet  and  kissed  them.  Perhaps  his 
eyes  told  the  little  priest  as  much;  for  his  gaze  softened 


268  ADAM  OF  DUBLIN 

before  he  opened  his  lips  and  said,  "  So  you've  come 
back  at  last." 

"  I'd  have  come  at  once  if  I'd  dared,"  said  Adam. 

"What  have  I  done  that  you  wouldn't  come  to  me 
when  you're  in  sin?"  asked  the  priest.  "What  am  I 
for?" 

"What  am  I  for? "  returned  Adam,  " that  I  should  be 
always  troubling  you  ?  "  He  was  more  than  half  sincere 
in  this,  but  his  tone  betrayed  the  doubt  of  his  own 
sincerity. 

"You  have  not  distressed  me  so  much  by  what  you 
have  done,  God  forgive  me,"  said  Father  Innocent,  "  as 
by  leaving  me  to  hear  of  it  first  from  others.  And  I 
thought,  perhaps,  I  thought  perhaps  .  .  .  Oh,  my  dotey, 
dotey  boy !  "  He  caught  Adam  passionately  in  his  arms 
and  they  mingled  their  tears  together,  the  latter  now 
truly  repentant  since  he  found  the  priest's  attitude  was  one 
of  grief  and  not  of  blame.  He  would  have  gone  through 
the  whole  hideous  experience  with  Father  Tudor  again 
to  win  the  sweet  joy  of  Father  Innocent's  loving  tears 
when  all  was  over. 

It  seemed  that  earlier  in  the  afternoon  Father  Tuite 
had  rung  up  Marlborough  Street  and  asked  Father  In- 
nocent to  call.  He  had  hurried  to  Belvedere  at  once, 
dreading  bad  news  of  Adam.  Adam  saw  that  he  did 
not  find  the  news  as  bad  as  he  had  dreaded.  Father 
Tuite  had  told  him  that  the  Prefect  of  Studies  had 
reported  Adam  to  have  been  guilty  of  a  long  list  of 
offenses,  culminating  in  blasphemy,  and  a  particularly 
revolting  assault  upon  himself,  which  called  for  the  very 


FATHER  INNOCENT  GOES  269 

severest  corporal  and  other  punishments  that  could  pos- 
sibly be  administered  to  a  boy  of  his  years.  Father 
Innocent  had  asked  if  Father  Tuite  himself  had  seen 
Adam  and  he  said  "  No,"  that  he  had  been  away  while  the 
alleged  offenses  took  place,  and  dropped  a  hint  that 
they  might  not  have  happened  had  he  been  on  the  spot. 
Father  Innocent  then  suggested  that  Adam  should  be 
heard  and  Father  Tuite  willingly  agreed ;  but,  when  Fa- 
ther Innocent  flew  off  to  St.  George's  Place,  Miss  Gan- 
non could  not  tell  him  anything  more  than  that  Adam 
had  gone  off  as  usual  in  the  morning  and  had  not  been 
seen  since.  Returning  to  Belvedere  with  this  news  he 
discovered  the  further  sinister  fact  that  Adam's  books 
had  been  left  in  the  Third  of  Grammar  classroom  and 
Father  Tudor  now  accused  Adam  of  stealing  his  ferrule. 

At  this  Adam  burst  out  laughing  and  Father  Innocent 
was  constrained  to  smile  wanly  at  the  irrepressibility 
of  his  sense  of  humor.  Without  mentioning  names 
Adam  recounted  his  conversation  with  the  desperado 
Fallon. 

Father  Innocent  brightened.  "  I  knew  you  didn't  mean 
to  blaspheme,"  he  said.  "  I  told  Father  Tuite  so  and  he 
said  Father  Elphinstone  had  also  spoken  up  for  you  and 
said  it  was  impossible.  Even  that  poor,  wretched  little 
O'Meagher  (what  a  mockery  for  him  to  have  a  great 
name  like  that),  owned  that  he  didn't  think  you  meant 
what  Father  Tudor  thought  you  meant.  But  he  thought 
you  ought  to  be  flogged  for  losing  your  temper  and  spoil- 
ing Father  Tudor's  clothes." 

"  That  was  Father  Tudor's  fault,  not  mine,"  said  Adam. 


270  ADAM  OF  DUBLIN 

"  He  thought  he  was  doing  something  clever  by  keeping 
me  cooped  upstairs  ..." 

Father  Innocent  held  up  his  hand.  "  That  was  only 
he  forgot  ..." 

"  He  didn't  forget  to  torment  me,"  Adam  cried  hoarsely. 
"  He  didn't  forget  to  turn  me  back  when  I'd  got  to  the 
very  bottom  of  the  stairs.  If  that  was  forgetfulness  he 
ought  to  be  under  lock  and  key  at  Richmond." 

Father  Innocent  drooped  his  head.  "  You  mustn't 
talk  like  that,  Adam.  You  must  never  forget  the  man's 
a  priest." 

"But  if  he  forgets  it  himself,"  said  Adam  relent- 
lessly. 

"Even  so,"  answered  Father  Innocent.  "Even  sup- 
posing he  does,  and  we've  no  right  to  suppose  it.  ... 
That  is  no  excuse  for  you  and  me  to  forget  it." 

"You?"  asked  Adam,  astonished. 

"  Do  you  think  I've  no  natural  feelings  at  all?  "  blurted 
Father  Innocent.  "  Do  you  think  I  can  hear  of  him  treat- 
ing you  like  that  without  wanting  to  go  and  knock  his 
head  off — which,  of  course,  I  couldn't  do,  God  help  me, 
for  he's  twice  the  man  I  ever  was.  But,  even  if  I  could 
take  himj  across  my  knee  and  smack  him  (did  any  one 
ever  hear  of  such  a  thing?)  two  wrongs  wouldn't  make 
a  right."  .  .  .  He  stopped  and  looked  at  his  watch. 
"  Why,  it's  near  time  you  were  in  bed." 

He  walked  up  with  Adam  to  St.  George's  Place,  Adam 
deliciously  happy  and  at  ease,  clinging  to  his  arm,  little 
dreaming  how  the  tired  body  ached  as  he  tugged  at  it 
in  the  stress  of  his  grateful  emotion.  Delicious  to  climb 


FATHER  INNOCENT  GOES  271 

St.  George's  Street  beneath  the  placid  stars  and  think  of 
the  despair  of  life  itself  that  had  curdled  his  blood  as 
he  had  descended  with  Fallon,  six  hours  before.  Even 
the  fagade  of  Belvedere  itself,  had  no  unfriendly  look. 
It  was  only  the  hateful,  staring  red  school  building 
behind  that  he  quarreled  with.  It  was  there  that  Tudor 
reigned  and  not  in  the  old  house,  that  he  associated 
with  Father  Tuite  from  whom  he  had  no  unkindness. 
Still,  he  was  determined  that,  unless  Father  Innocent 
made  it  the  price  of  his  friendship,  he  would  never  pass 
through  the  sinister  gate  that  led  to  the  schoolhouse 
again. 

He  stopped  the  priest  in  front  of  it  and  pointed  to 
the  closed  gate  and  the  portal  beyond.  "  You'll  never 
ask  me  to  go  through  there  again  ?  "  he  asked,  trembling 
with  trepidation  at  his  own  words. 

"  God  forbid,  I  ever  should,  my  dotey  boy,"  answered 
Father  Innocent.  "  But  you  must  remember  it  is  not 
me  alone  who  will  have  to  decide  what  is  to  be  done. 
Anyhow  I  told  Father  Tuite  I  thought  it  would  be 
better  to  keep  you  at  home  to-morrow,  being  Saturday, 
and  he  agreed  with  me.  Father  Tuite,  I  am  sure,  has 
no  wish  to  have  you  flogged." 

Adam's  gorge  rose  at  the  word.  "  I'd  take  a  flogging 
from  you,"  he  said%  "  I'd  take  anything  from  you.  But 
if  Tudor  tries  to  lay  his  hands  on  me  again,  I'll  kill  him 
dead." 

The  words,  flung  fiercely  out  on  the  night  air,  echoed 
against  the  portico  of  St.  George's  Church.  "Hist, 
hist!"  the  little  priest  besought  him.  "Whatever  hap- 


272  ADAM  OF  DUBLIN 

pens,  I  promise  you,  Adam,  that  so  long  as  I  live,  Father 
Tudor  will  never  lay  hands  on  you  again." 

To  Miss  Gannon,  who  was  inclined  to  fall  upon  Adam 
tooth  and  nail  for  causing  her  anxiety,  he  explained 
that  he  had  been  taken  ill  at  Belvedere  and  had  found 
refuge  in  the  house  of  a  friend,  that  he  must  now  go 
straight  to  bed  and  be  allowed  a  long  sleep  in  the  morn- 
ing. "No  school  for  a  day  or  two,  Miss  Gannon." 
Then  he  turned  to  Adam  and  kissed  him  on  the  fore- 
head. "  Good-night,  my  dotey  boy.  Come  down  to  see 
me  about  three  to-morrow.  And  now  to  bed  and  sleep 
just  as  if  there  were  no  such  thing  as  trouble  in  the  world ; 
for  there  isn't  really  when  you  think  of  the  infinite  good- 
ness of  God." 

The  door  of  St.  George's  Place  closed  behind  him 
and,  with  wistful  ears,  Adam  heard  his  feet  drag  them- 
selves very  slowly  to  the  corner  of  Temple  Street  and 
then  die  away  for  ever. 

As  Adam,  too  tired  to  read,  blew  out  his  light 
and  turned  on  his  pillow  to  sleep,  the  cornet  player 
flung  forth  the  opening  bars  of  his  sempiternal 
song  :— 

"When  other  lips  and  o — o — o — other  .    .   ." 

The  pause  called  forth  no  answer  from  above.  That 
Frenchman  was  still  out;  so  he  went  on: — 

"...  hearts 
Their  tales  of  love  shall  tell," 


FATHER  INNOCENT  GOES  273 

and  so  on  and  on  to  the  last  vastly  tremulous  setting  of 
the  words. 


"That  you'll  re — mem — e — ember  me." 

This  brazen  pathos  lulled  him  to  slumber  to-night,  but, 
henceforth,  its  wail  was  to  be  unbearable  to  him. 

The  next  day  he  lay  luxuriously  in  bed  enjoying  his 
breakfast  and  hfs  Keats  and  a  vast  contempt  for  Father 
Tudor  all  at  once.  But,  precisely  at  three,  he  rang  the 
bell  at  the  priests'  house  in  Marlborough  Street.  He 
noticed  there  were  two  old  women  waiting,  in  tears,  for 
the  door  to  open. 

When  at  last  it  did  the  janitor  eyed  him  balefully. 
"Father  Feeley  is  it?  How  many  more  of  you?  D'ye 
think  I've  nothing  else  to  do  but  to  be  running  to  this 
blessed  door  all  day  ..." 

"  But  he  told  me  to  come,"  said  Adam.  "  He  told  me 
to  come  at  three  o'clock." 

"  Well,  he  won't  tell  you  to  come  any  more,"  snapped 
the  man,  "  for  he  died  this  morning." 


CHAPTER  XXVII 
THAT  FRENCHMAN 

THAT  day  was  the  first  in  Adam's  life  when  he  thought 
of  the  death  of  others  as  a  loss  to  himself.  His  father's 
decease  was  news  of  as  great  joy  to  him  as  the  death 
of  the  Attorney-General  to  Mr.  Sergeant  Macfie;  and 
even  his  godmother,  for  all  her  kindness,  had  left  no 
real  gap  in  his  life.  But,  with  the  death  of  Father 
Innocent,  all  virtue  crumbled  and  goodness  lost  her 
beauty.  It  seemed  to  him,  as  he  turned  from  the  priests' 
house,  that  he  himself  was  lying  dead  inside.  Marl- 
borough  Street  had  no  reality  apart  from  the  House  of 
God  beside  him.  He  made  for  that  instinctively,  and, 
pushing  through  the  swinging  doors,  fell  on  his  knees 
and  prayed,  not  as  of  old  to  the  Blessed  Virgin  but  to 
the  new  Saint  Innocent  he  visualized  as  edging  his  way 
through  the  heavenly  throng  to  say  a  word  to  God  about 
one  Adam  Macfadden,  who  meant  well  and  tried  to  do 
no  one  any  harm,  though  he  was  greatly  harassed  by 
spiteful  men  and  sometimes  couldn't  help  laughing  at  Holy 
things.  He  would  make  it  clear  to  the  Blessed  Trinity 
that  Adam  hadn't  meant  to  be  impudent  to  Them,  but 
only  to  Father  Tudor,  who  had  used  their  names  to  tor- 
ment him. 

And  yet,  oh,  vain  and  illusory  hope!     Father  Inno- 
274 


THAT  FRENCHMAN  275 

cent's  presence  in  heaven,  to  speak  for  him  before  the 
Throne  of  God,  in  no  way  consoled  him  for  the  thought 
that  he  would  never  more  stand  here  on  earth  to  defend 
him  from  the  wrath  of  man.  When  Adam  turned  his  back 
on  the  Pro-Cathedral  and  descended  the  steps,  though 
he  did  not  foresee  it,  for  the  last  time,  he  felt  that  he 
was  now  absolutely  alone  in  the  world.  True,  his  mother 
was  to  be  found  a  few  hundred  yards  away,  but  he 
had  no  desire  to  seek  sympathy  from  her,  even  if  she 
could  have  given  it  to  him.  He  had  forgotten  her  early 
ill-treatment  of  him  but  that  was  because  he  had  virtu- 
ally forgotten  her  altogether.  She  was  just  a  blurred 
detail  in  the  fading  dream  of  his  infancy.  The  two  most 
real  persons  in  the  world  he  faced,  as  he  descended  the 
Pro-Cathedral's  steps,  were  Father  Tudor  and  that 
Frenchman.  That  Frenchman  who  had  won  his  con- 
fidence by  his  instinctive  faith  in  the  goodness  of  Father 
Innocent.  The  two  had  never  met,  and  yet  by  some  mystic 
succession  it  seemed  to  him  just  then  that  possibly  some 
scrap  of  the  little  priest's  mantle  had  fallen  on  the  tall 
musician's  shoulders.  Adam  recalled  his  last  words, 
spoken  there  on  this  very  pavement,  as  he  turned  to 
remount  the  car  last  night,  "  You  know  that  thirty  steps 
upwards  will  carry  you  out  of  any  trouble  at  St.  George's 
Place." 

Adam  found  it  too  painful  to  return  home  the  way 
he  had  come,  the  way  he  had  walked  with  beloved 
Father  Innocent  last  night.  He  turned  into  Sackville 
Street  and  then  north.  Outside  the  Gresham  Hotel  he 
saw  Patsy  Doyle,  grown  a  big  fellow  now,  selling  the 


276  ADAM  OF  DUBLIN 

early  papers.  Adam's  eyes  moistened.  "Father  Inno- 
cent," said  he,  and  was  unable  to  go  on. 

Patsy  nodded,  also  touched.  "  I  seen  it  in  the  Tele- 
graph. There's  going  to  be  an  inquest." 

Adam's  blood  chilled  horribly.  "  An  inquest.  Was 
he  murdereB  ?  " 

"  I  shouldn't  wonder,"  said  Patsy.  "  There's  fellows 
there  would  do  it  out  of  spite.  He  was  worth  the  lot 
of  them  put  together.  He  got  me  out  of  a  scrape  many 
a  time,  and  I'm  not  the  only  one,  I  can  tell  you." 

"  I  know  you're  not,"  said  Adam.  "  He  was  everything 
in  the  world  to  me." 

"  Oh,  cheese  it,"  cried  his  unsentimental  friend.  "  The 
world's  a  hell  of  a  size."  He  added,  "  I'm  not  denying, 
mind  you,  that  old  Feeley  was  the  best  thing  in  it  as 
far  as  I  know." 

Adam  bought  a  Telegraph  from  him.  That  is  to  say 
he  presented  Adam  with  a  Telegraph  and  Adam  pre- 
sented him  with  a  threepenny  bit  and  he  said,  "  Thank 
you,  Mac,  and  God  bless  you."  Then  they  parted  affec- 
tionately as  they  had  ever  done  since  they  worked  side 
by  side,  though,  from  the  time  of  his  going  to  Belvedere, 
Adam  rarely  passed  that  way  on  foot,  for  fear  of  his 
new  dignity  being  compromised  by  the  less  discreet  of 
his  old  companions  who  were  not  above  throwing  mud 
at  his  fine  clothes  or  blackmailing  him.  But  Patsy  was 
always  the  same:  coarser  in  language  than  in  thought 
and  making  no  distinction  between  the  new  Adam  and 
the  old  except  that  he  waited  always  for  Adam  to  give 
the  first  sign  of  recognition.  "You're  going  one  way 


THAT  FRENCHMAN  277 

and  I  another,"  he  explained.     "You  needn't  tell  me 
when  you  want  to  say  good-by." 

As  he  walked  along  towards  Rutland  Square  Adam 
read  the  paragraph  in  the  paper  pointed  out  to  him: — 

SUDDEN  DEATH  OF  A  PRIEST 

"  We  regret  to  announce  that  Father  Innocent  Feeley, 
of  the  Pro-Cathedral,  Marlborough  Street,  was  found 
dead  in  his  apartment  this  morning.  The  body  was  dis- 
covered at  an  early  hour,  lying  on  the  floor  with  the 
arms  outstretched.  His  Reverence  had  been  in  failing 
health  for  a  long  time  past,  but  no  immediate  cause 
has  been  assigned  for  his  decease.  It  is  possible  than  an 
inquest  may  be  called  for." 

To  Adam  it  seemed  that  the  priest  had  surely  been 
murdered.  He  almost  imagined  that  Father  Tudor  might 
have  done  it.  He  never  doubted  the  Jesuit's  will  to 
slay  any  one  who  opposed  him.  He  regarded  him  as 
a  non-moral  creature,  just  as  Dr.  Hillington-Ryde  re- 
garded Mr.  Sergeant  Macfie.  Probably  both  were  right 
in  their  suspicions,  but,  happily,  human  justice  with  all 
its  imperfections  has  reached  sufficient  mechanical  effi- 
ciency to  deter  our  Tudors  and  Macfies  from  extirpating 
those  whom  they  honor  with  their  enmity.  No  man's 
hand  had  been  raised  against  Father  Innocent.  Father 
Tudor  was  too  self-centered  to  be  aware  of  his  existence 
beyond  a  belief  that  that  clever  young  scoundrel  Mac- 
fadden  had  been  pampered  and  spoiled  for  the  purposes 


278  ADAM  OF  DUBLIN 

of-  Father  Tudor  by  some  old  woman  disguised  as  a 
Catholic  curate.  To  Father  Tudor  the  Pro-Cathedral  was 
almost  as  ridiculous  as  to  that  Frenchman.  It  was  a 
contemptible  compromise  between  their  opposing  views. 
But  that  Frenchman  could  understand  and  appreciate 
Father  Innocent,  for  he  was  not,  like  Father  Tudor,  a 
fanatic. 

To  Adam,  however,  the  question  of  how  Father  Inno- 
cent met  his  death  seemed  of  no  weight  compared  with 
the  overwhelming  fact  that  he  was  dead,  and  his  mind 
was  divided  between  two  thoughts:  regret  that  he  him- 
self had  not  died,  to  be  spared  this  crushing  sense  of 
loss,  and  gladness  that  he  had  seen  Father  Innocent 
and  justified  himself  to  him,  and  received  the  last  assur- 
ance of  his  love.  He  wondered  if  he  suffered  himself  to 
be  caught  under  one  of  those  great  trams  that  came 
swishing  down  into  Rutland  Square  past  Findlater's 
Church,  whether  the  next  moment  he  would  find  St. 
Innocent's  hands  stretched  out  to  him  through  the  gates 
of  heaven.  He  looked  skywards,  half  hopeful  of  a 
•portent,  but  none  had  come  when  he  turned  into  Hard- 
wick  Street  and  left  the  trams  behind.  He  thought  the 
white  pillars  of  St.  George's  Church  looked  gracious  and 
even  benign  as  they  closed  the  perspective  of  the  dingy 
street.  He  thought  it  rmore  beautiful  than  the  fagade 
of  Gardiner's  Street,  but,  inside,  he  understood,  no 
Protestant  Church  was  to  be  compared  for  beauty  with 
the  lowliest  Catholic  one.  He  believed  it  to  be  a  mortal 
sin  to  enter  a  Protestant  church.  To  do  so  was  to 
endanger  your  faith;  for  there  might  be  some  one  waiting 


THAT  FRENCHMAN  2791 

there  in  the  gloom  to  spring  on  you  and  proselytize  you 
before  you  could  call  your  Angel  Guardian  to  your  help. 
He  had  a  notion  that  his  Angel  Guardian,  him  or  her- 
self, would  think  twice  before  risking  his  or  her  faith 
in  a  Protestant  church. 

From  the  steeple  rang  forth  the  four  quarters  as  he 
looked  at  it.  He  could  not  see  the  hands  of  the  clock 
but  the  hour  bell  tolled  forth  five  resonant  strokes. 
Dublin  was  lighting  up  for  the  night.  That  Frenchman's 
window  was  open  and  when  the  resonance  of  the  bells 
had  died  away,  Adam  could  hear  the  clear,  fine  notes 
of  his  piano  drifting  faintly  to  the  street.  He  heard 
them  still  after  Attracta  had  opened  the  door,  and  he 
ascended  to  his  own  room.  They  did  not  cease  until 
Adam,  after  long  hesitation  ascended  the  thirty  steps 
and  tapped  gently. 

"  Herrein,"  called  that  Frenchman,  in  a  voice  which 
struck  Adam  as  incredibly  youthful,  but,  as  he  had  no 
idea  what  the  word  meant,  he  knocked  again.  This 
time  that  Frenchman  himself  flung  open  the  door,  his 
eye  traveled  down  from;  the  level  of  his  shoulder  until 
it  rested  on  Adam's  face.  "Ach,  you,"  he  cried,  with 
outstretched  hand.  "  Come  in,  come  in,  did  I  not  call  to 
you  to  come  in." 

"  I  heard  you  say  something,"  Adam  declared,  "  but 
I  didn't  think  you  said  '  come  in.' " 

That  Frenchman's  face  was  hardly  to  be  seen  in  the 
darkness  of  the  room  as  he  returned,  "  Ah,  perhaps  not. 
I  was  far  away  in  the  land  of  Bach  as  you  knocked. 
Perhaps  I  did  not  say  '  come  in.'  I  have  so  few  visitors 


280  ADAM  OF  DUBLIN 

here.  I  thought  I  said  come  in,  but,  perhaps  I  said 
something  else.  You  see  I  am  very  old.  I  am  not 
certain  always  what  I  say.  Come  here  and  sit  down  by 
the  fire.  You  do  not  mind  the  darkness.  It  rests  the 
eyes,  eh?  It  allows  one  to  think.  Miss  Gannon's  walls 
are  excellent  as  Miss  Gannon  herself,  but  I  do  not  want 
always  to  see  them.  I  prefer  to  look  into  the  fire  or  up  to 
the  sky  or  even  down  upon  that  little  church,  though  this 
is  not  the  best  view  of  it.  I  prefer  sometimes  to  look 
into  my  own  memory  rather  than  on  Miss  Gannon's  ex- 
cellent walls." 

"  Are  you  older  than  Mr.  Murphy  ?  "  Adam  broached 
the  great  question. 

"The  great  Mr.  Murphy  of  the  trams?"  came  the 
other's  voice  through  the  shadows.  "  Guilelmus  Martinus 
Contractor,  you  mean  ?  We  are  much  of  an  age,  I  fancy." 

"  I  mean  Mr.  Murphy  downstairs,"  said  Adam. 

"  Oh,  that,"  said  his  host.  "  I  have  no  idea  what  age 
that  has.  Such  men  are  born  senile.  Bacchus  is  ever 
young  and  fair,  but  Silenus  was  always  old  and  ugly. 
The  thing  downstairs  is  not  even  a  Silenus.  He  is  noth- 
ing. He  was  not  born  but  aborted.  Perhaps  he  can 
give  you  the  date  of  that  catastrophe.  I  was  born  in 
1848." 

"  Ah,"  said  Adam,  pleased  with  his  own  cleverness. 
"  That  was  the  year  after  Daniel  O'Connell  died." 

"So  much  the  better  for  Daniel  O'Connell,"  that 
Frenchman  declared.  "  He  would  not  have  enjoyed  the 
year  1848.  There  was  too  great  a  wind  blowing  in 
Europe  that  year.  It  blew  Metternich  away.  Daniel 


THAT  FRENCHMAN  281 

O'Connell  was  at  heart  no  better  than  Metternich,  though 
he  had  a  greater  genius." 

Adam  had  never  heard  of  Metternich.  For  him,  and 
those  educated  under  the  Intermediate  Act,  it  was  Gen- 
eral the  Duke  of  Wellington,  feebly  assisted  by  Sergeant- 
Major  Blucher,  who  made  an  end  of  Bonaparte  and 
all  his  cuirassiers.  The  world  of  history  was  a  box  of 
soldiers  and  a  jigsaw  map.  Nothing  happened  there 
for  any  of  the  reasons  they  saw  operating  in  the  world 
around  them.  In  the  history  books,  any  one  who  op- 
posed the  Government,  since  the  Act  of  Settlement,  was 
a  villain.  In  real  life  he  was  a  hero.  It  was  only  in 
Greek  and  Roman  history  that  you  read  of  any  person  for 
whom  you  could  feel  a  liking.  In  ancient  times  you 
were  allowed  to  admire  the  Gracchi,  who  stood  for  some 
sort  of  liberty  and  justice.  In  modern  times,  you  were 
called  upon  to  admire  thieving,  hectoring  General  Clive, 
who  could  not  tolerate  even  himself.  It  was  queer  to 
think  of  the  changes  Christianity  had  made  in  the  world. 
It  was  of  no  use  to  ask  any  one  at  Belvedere  how  it  was 
that  this  great  improvement  had  made  things  so  much 
worse.  No  doubt  there  were  men  like  Father  Tudor, 
long  ago  in  Greece.  He  would  make  you  prefer  to  have 
a  fox  eat  your  inside,  rather  than  listen  to  his  mere  talk. 
Still,  the  notion  you  got  of  Greece  was  that  people  there 
had  some  sort  of  reason  for  what  they  did.  Father  Tudor 
and  his  Mr.  O'Meagher  had  none.  He  did  not  think 
they  would  have  done  well  in  Athens  at  all  events.  All 
that  was  tiring  to  think  about.  It  was  very  dark  in  that 
room.  Just  the  glimpse  of  sky  outside  and  the  firelight 


282  ADAM  OF  DUBLIN 

flickering  in  a  few  picture  glasses  and  glowing  on  the 
hearth.  It  was  warm  and  cozy.  He  suppressed  a  yawn 
to  hear  the  Frenchman  say  "  Metternich  and  O'Connell 
are  dead.  We  are  alive.  What  is  your  news  ?  " 
Adam  answered,  "  Father  Feeley's  dead  too." 
Then  that  Frenchman  said,  "  Ach,  Liebchen.  Es  thut 
mir  sehr  leid."  Words  that  Adam  supposed  must  be 
French  and  sounded  so  infinitely  kind  and  tender  that 
he  unaccountably  found  himeelf  sitting  on  his  host's  knee, 
crying  out  his  heart  against  his  shoulder.  The  first  full 
flood  of  his  passionate,  hopeless  regret  for  the  one  person 
who  certain  sure  had  ever  loved  him  up  till  then,  when  the 
last  of  his  most  sensitive  years  was  running  to  an  end. 

But  for  Father  Innocent,  Adam  had  just  been  any 
little  blackguard  boy  in  Dublin,  selling  papers,  and 
Adam,  for  all  his  vanity,  knew.  And,  perhaps,  but  for 
that  Frenchman,  he  might,  after  all,  have  fallen  back  into 
the  ranks  of  little  blackguard  boys  or  grown  up  to  be 
such  a  gentleman  as  his  godfather  Mr.  O'Toole.  That, 
however,  was  a  possibility  he  did  not  foresee.  He  only 
knew,  as  he  sat  on  that  Frenchman's  lap,  that  he  was 
at  once  more  like  and  more  unlike  Father  Innocent  than 
any  other  person  he  had  ever  met.  He  was  wondering 
whether  by  any  strange  concatenation  of  events,  that 
Frenchman  could  possibly  have  been  Father  Innocent's 
father,  forgetting  that  that  promising  jurist  lay  buried  at 
Glasnevin ;  while  that  Frenchman  had  taken  it  for  granted 
that  Adam  was  in  all  likelihood  Father  Innocent's  son. 


CHAPTER  XXVIII 
ADAM  BECOMES  A  MAN  OF  THE  WORLD 

THERE  followed  a  most  unlocked  for  evening ;  for  Adam's 
new  friend  was  not  one  of  those  who  hold  that  youth  or 
age  is  comforted  by  an  insistence  on  the  dismal.  "  Your 
friend  is  dead,"  said  he  in  effect.  "  Nothing  that  you 
will  do  can  ever  bring  him  back  to  this  world.  You, 
yourself,  believe  that  he  is  far  happier  in  that  other 
world  he  knew  how  to  describe  in  a  manner  you  find 
so  agreeable,  that  you  wish  to  go  there  yourself.  Let 
us  then  rejoice  over  his  happiness.  The  regret  you  feel  is 
natural,  but  purely  selfish  and  therefore  displeasing -to 
him.  So  away  with  it !  We  spend  the  evening  together, 
you  and  I,  and  cheer  each  other  up  against  the  mis- 
fortune of  remaining  upon  earth." 

So  Adam  went  down  to  his  room  and  washed,  and 
put  on  his  Sunday  clothes,  and  then  he  and  the  musician 
left  the  house  together  for  the  first  time.  Attracta, 
bringing  in  Mr.  Murphy's  dinner,  to  be  eaten  in  solitary 
grandeur,  while  Miss  Gannon  shared  her  nephew's  be- 
low, stared  at  trie  pair  of  them.  "  Does  the  mistress 
know  you're  going  out?"  she  asked  Adam  in  a  shocked 
voice. 

That  Frenchman  answered,  "  Know  you  not  that  our 
•mistress  is  omniscient?"  and  the  door  closed  behind 
283 


284  ADAM  OF  DUBLIN 

them.    Adam  felt  that  he  was  a  dashing  sort  of  fellow. 

They  walked  down  Hardwick  Street  and  caught  a 
tram,  from  the  roof  of  which  they  did  not  descend 
until  they  had  reached  the  top  of  Dawson  Street.  They 
walked  past  the  Shelbourne  Hotel,  where  Adam  had  not 
ventured  since  his  signal  defeat  so  long  ago  by  the 
police.  Then  they  crossed  the  road  and  broke  fresh 
ground.  .  .  .  That  Frenchman  did  something  that  Adam 
hardly  thought  possible.  He  went  up  to  a  door  of  an 
ordinary  private  house,  of  such  a  kind  as  Lady  Bland 
lived  in,  and  opened  it  by  simply  turning  the  door-handle. 
He  bowed  Adam  in,  a  remarkable  ceremony  in  itself, 
and  closed  the  door  behind  him.  They  were  in  a  hall 
in  no  way  different  from  any  other  halls  Adam  had 
glimpsed  from  the  street.  A  few  hats  and  coats  hung 
on  pegs.  A  clock  pointed  to  twenty  minutes  past  six. 
There  was  a  clatter  of  knives  and  forks.  At  the  top  of 
a  flight  of  stairs  stood  a  bony,  pleasant  gentleman,  with 
a  black  mustache,  in  full  evening  dress,  talking  to  a  tall 
gentleman  with  a  fair  mustache  and  pink,  round  cheeks 
and  no  apparent  bones,  dressed  in  a  compromise,  Adam 
thought,  between  the  costumes  of  a  waiter  and  a  railway 
porter,  though  he  obviously  did  not  follow  either  of  these 
vocations.  He  said  to  him,  "  Thank  you,  Tinkler.  The 
Marchesa  says  that  will  be  tophole."  Adam  assured 
himself  that  he  dreamed,  and  this  impression  was  start- 
lingly  confirmed  by  the  bony  gentleman's  next  sentence. 
"  Tell  me,  Tinkler,  how  is  Lady  Bland?  " 

"  Well,  you  know,  you  know,"  said  Mr.  Tinkler.  "  You 
know  what  Sir  Adolphus  is." 


BECOMES  A  MAN  OF  THE  WORLD      285 

Adam  knew  then  that  he  was  not  dreaming  for  he 
could  not  dream  such  an  absurd  answer  to  the  question, 
"  How  is  Lady  Bland  ?  "  But  the  bony  man  did  not  treat 
it  as  absurd.  He  said,  "By  Jove,  Adolphus  is  an  old 
belcher,  isn't  he?  All  the  chaps  in  my  office  want  to 
put  his  head  in  a  bucket.  But  Lady  Eland's  not  a  bad 
old  buzzard." 

"  To  me,"  said  Mr.  Tinkler.  "  To  me,  she  is  one  of  the 
noblest,  noblest  and  most  beautiful  figures  of  our  time. 
Nobody,  nobody  knows,  what  she  suffers  from  that  man, 
that  man." 

"If  it's  worse  than  what  she  told  my  wife,"  declared 
the  bony  man  heartily,  "Old  Adolphus  deserves  to  be 
skiboshed,  but  I  suppose  she  takes  it  out  of  the  old 
sinner  in  curtain  lectures  and  all  that  sort  of  deviltry." 

Adam  saw  that  Mr.  Tinkler  found  this  suggestion 
unpalatable,  but  he  did  not  hear  his  reply;  for  his  host, 
who  had  been  busy  reading  a  letter,  taken  from  a  green 
cloth  board,  the  only  thing  in  the  hall  Adam  did  not  expect 
to  see  there,  said,  "  Come,  Mr.  Macfadden.  You  will  eat 
a  little  dinner  with  me,"  and  led  him  upstairs.  Pass- 
ing the  bony  gentleman  he  said,  "  It  is  permitted,  Willy, 
is  it  not,  to  have  ^young  people  upstairs  on  Saturday 
nights?" 

To  which  the  bony  gentleman  answered,  "  Of  course, 
dear  old  thing,  any  time.  Only  too  glad  to  find  some 
one  to  pay  for  a  meal.  But  it's  up  to  you  to  see  the 
Marchesa  doesn't  kidnap  him  for  her  Infant  Druids. 
There  are  two  of  them  going  to  do  an  ancient  Irish 
sword  dance  on  bayonets  captured  from  the  R.I.C.  I 


286  ADAM  OF  DUBLIN 

told  her  that  sort  of  thing  might  offend  Leaper-Carahar 
and  some  of  the  fellows  from  my  office,  but  she  says  any 
one  who  can't  keep  their  politics  apart  from  their  artistic 
feelings  had  better  resign  from  the  club.  I  don't  know 
what  the  hell  to  do  about  it,  old  chap.  I  wish  you'd 
speak  to  her." 

"  The  Marchesa  is  a  very  beautiful  and  very  interesting 
lady,"  the  musician  answered,  "  but  I  fear  to  engage  her 
in  conversation  lest  she  should  compel  even  me  to  become 
an  Infant  Druid.  I  have  told  her  I  am  many  years  her 
senior." 

"  You  older  than  the  Marchesa !  "  said  Willy.  "  Gosh, 
no.  Not  a  day.  Why,  she  was  at  school  with  Lady 
Bland.  Rum  old  birds  both  of  them,  with  all  respect 
to  our  friend  Tinkler." 

Adam  was  enchanted  by  these  scraps  of  conversation, 
though  bewildered  to  find  that  the  converse  of  high 
life  differed  mainly  in  its  accentuation  from  that  to 
which  he  had  been  accustomed.  He  had  found  already 
that  the  talk  of  the  young  gentlemen  at  Belvedere,  when 
they  spoke  among  themselves,  was  hardly  to  be  distin- 
guished from  the  talk  of  his  old  companions  outside  the 
Gresham  Hotel,  except  that  there  was  more  about  foot- 
ball and  less  about  food.  In  the  room  which  they  now 
entered  the  talk  was  largely  about  food,  but  then  the 
people  were  eating,  so  that  was  natural  enough.  What 
puzzled  him  was  that  they  all  appeared  to  be  regretting 
that  they  were  not  eating  the  far  better  food  which  they 
said  they  could  have  found  elsewhere  at  a  lesser  price. 

"  That  soup  wasn't  any  good  at  all,"  said  a  large  gen- 


BECOMES  A  MAN  OF  THE  WORLD      287 

tleman,  who  had  just  emptied  his  plate  and  taken  up  a 
card  from  the  table. 

"  I  agree  with  you  for  once,  Mr.  Leaper-Carahar,"  said 
an  old  lady,  with  a  voice  that  would  have  been  pleasant 
had  it  not  been  hysterical.  Mr.  Leaper-Carahar  took  no 
notice  of  her. 

Adam  thought  it  discourteous  of  Mr.  Leaper-Carahar 
to  take  no  notice  of  the  old  lady.  He  did  not  greatly 
care  for  the  old  lady,  but  he  thought  he  liked  her  better 
than  Mr.  Leaper-Carahar,  who  said  presently,  "  There's 
simply  nothing  I  can  eat  at  all  on  the  menu,"  and  then 
ordered  something  which  Adam  recognized  on  its  ap- 
pearance as  fish.  "  D'you  call  that  turbot  ?  "  he  asked 
the  plump  waitress.  "  It  looks  to  me  like  a  bit  of  a 
sardine." 

The  old  lady  said,  "  I  dare  say  he  looks  to  it  like  a 
shark  or  a  whale,"  and  for  a  while  Mr.  Leaper-Carahar 
said  no  more,  but  put  away  the  fish  in  his  inside  with 
the  slow  pomp  of  disdain  and  ordered  lamb  cutlets  to 
follow. 

The  room  was  very  full,  and  all  the  tables  occupied, 
but  the  musician  found  places  for  himself  and  Adam  at 
one  where  a  handsome  and  impressive-looking  personage 
wTas  haranguing  in  Gselic,  a  very  short  gentleman,  who 
did  not  pretend  to  follow  him  but  talked  disjointedly  with 
all  in  general.  The  handsome  gentleman  broke  off  to 
address  the  new-comer  in  French.  "  Ah  vous  voila !  vous 
etes  de  mon  avis,  n'est-ce  pas,  de  toutes  les  nations, 
1'Albion  est  la  plus  perfide  ?  " 

"  No  nation  is  perfidious,"  answered  that  Frenchman. 


288  ADAM  OF  DUBLIN 

"  It  is  only  Governments  that  are  perfidious,  and  all 
Governments  are  equally  so." 

"If  you  have  a  nation  you  must  have  a  Government," 
the  handsome  man  retorted  absentmindedly  in  English. 

"  And  if  you  have  a  Government  you  must  have 
perfidy,"  said  the  Frenchman.  "  Even  the  government  of 
this  club  cannot  be  carried  on,  if  I  am  to  believe  Mr. 
Leaper-Carahar,  without  all  sorts  of  petty  deceits  and 
mental  reservations." 

Said  the  old  lady,  "  Mr.  Leaper-Carahar  judges  us  all 
by  himself."  Mr.  Leaper-Carahar  merely  ordered  more 
cutlets.  Adam  thought  him  a  proud  man,  chiefly  inter- 
esting by  reason  of  the  heartiness  of  his  appetite.  "His 
eye  wandered  round  the  room  to  a  table  where  sat  three 
girls.  One  of  them,  perhaps,  was  not  a  girl,  but  girlish. 
The  other  two  were  pretty.  One  of  them  was  called 
Babs.  He  was  not  sure  which  was  called  Babs.  He 
hoped  it  was  the  prettiest  one.  Vaguely  he  heard  the 
conversation  going  on  between  that  Frenchman  and  the 
imposing  stranger. 

"  Monsieur  est  pessimiste,"  said  the  stranger,  with 
withering  politeness. 

"  Du  tout,"  said  the  musician.  "  I  am  most  hopeful ; 
although  a  foreigner  I  know  Dublin  well  enough  to  be 
aware  that  a  little  more  than  a  hundred  years  ago  a 
club  of  this  kind  would  have  been  the  scene  of  drunken 
brawls  with  perhaps  a  fatal  duel  once  a  week." 

"I  regret  that  time,"  protested  the  handsome  man. 
"I  need  hardly  say  that  I  am  not  a  drunkard  nor  a 
duelist,  but  I  regret  that  time.  Then  Dublin  was  the 


BECOMES  A  MAN  OF  THE  WORLD      289 

third  city  in  Europe  and  the  capital  of  a  free  country." 

"Free  enough  for  men  like  yourself,  no  doubt,  who 
happen  to  be  a  Protestant  Peer,"  said  the  musician. 
"  But  even  a  worse  place  for  my  friend  Mr.  Macfadden, 
than  it  is  now,  and  that's  a  big  oath." 

"Who  is  your  friend  Mr.  Macfadden?"  asked  the 
handsome  man  loftily.  And,  when  Adam  was  presented 
to  him,  asked  if  he  spoke  Gaelic. 

"  No,  my  lord,"  said  Adam,  trembling  with  ecstasy,  at 
the  honor  of  addressing  himself  to  a  member  of  the 
nobility  and  one  who  looked  the  part  so  well  that  he 
might  have  come  straight  from  the  Picture  Palace.  "  I 
do  not,  my  lord." 

"Then,"  said  his  lordship,  with  a  smile  of  profound 
contempt,  "you  do  not  deserve  to  be  free."  And  he 
resumed  his  speech  to  the  little  gentleman  who  took 
refuge  behind  the  "  Late  Buff  "  and  nodded.  But  Adam 
did  not  care  even  for  this  peer;  for,  at  this  moment,  a 
very  brilliant  lady  sailed  into  the  room  and  sat  down 
with  the  three  girls,  and  addressed  thej  prettiest  as 
"  Babs,  my  dear,"  enjoining  her  in  these  words,  "  Babs 
and  all  of  you,  you  simply  must  do  something,  it  doesn't 
matter  what,  for  the  sword  dance  has  fallen  through." 
And  then  they  all  laughed  and  said,  "  As  usual." 

Psychologically  this  was  the  most  astounding  evening 
Adam  had  ever  passed,  and  he  found  it  impossible  to 
decide  whether  his  friend  the  musician,  whom  Miss  Gan- 
non had  led  him  to  regard  as  far  beneath  the  notice  of 
the  inebriate  barrister  on  the  first  floor,  had  really  intro- 
duced him  among  the  fine  flower  of  the  Irish  aristocracy, 


290  ADAM  OF  DUBLIN 

or  merely  brought  him  to  a  place  where  a  few  lunatics 
were  gathered  together.  Also,  he  had  disagreeable  doubts 
whether  the  whole  thing  were  not  sprung  from  his  own 
feverish  imagination.  Mr.  Leaper-Carahar  seemed  to 
have  an  objective  existence  but  he  had  gone  out  of  the 
room  and  so  had  the  old  lady.  But,  the  brilliant  lady, 
whose  beautiful  daughter  was  called  Babs,  he  thought  too 
good  to  be  true.  He  often  did  imagine  things  and  the 
society  of  lords  and  ladies  was  not  altogether  excluded 
from  his  fancies.  But,  with  him,  a  subjective  Protestant 
peer  would  have  ridden  about  on  horseback,  supported 
by  soldiers  and  police,  through  whom  Adam  would  have 
burst,  lifted  him  off  his  horse,  and  wiped  the  dust  with 
himj.  Or,  perhaps,  the  swords  of  the  escort  would  have 
simultaneously  flashed  in  air,  and  transfixed  with  myriad 
wounds  Adam's  heart.  And  he  would  have  died  grace- 
fully, singing  as  much  as  he  could  remember  of  the 
"  Wearing  of  the  Green."  But  the  possibility  of  sitting 
cheek  by  jowl  with  a  Protestant  peer,  and  eating  out  of 
the  same  dish  of  potatoes  had  never  occurred  to  him. 
That  the  Protestant  peer  should  further  speak  Gaelic  and 
rebuke  him  for  his  inability  to  do  so  was  to  pulverize  all 
his  conceptions  of  Protestantism  and  the  Peerage.  Again, 
when  he  had  heard  of  the  Marchesa,  which  was  the 
Italian,  it  seemed,  for  Marchioness,  who  would  be  the 
wife  of  the  Marquis,  which  he  had  remembered  to 
have  heard  his  father  say,  might  be  called  almost  more 
than  a  duke,  he  had  been  flattered  at  the  thought  of 
having  to  resist  her  attempt  to  beguile  him  into  her 
company  of  Infant  Druids,  whatever  that  corporation 


BECOMES  A  MAN  OF  THE  WORLD      291 

might  be.  But  if,  as  he  was  beginning  he  knew  not 
why  to  suspect,  that  queer  old  lady  who  had  attacked 
Mr.  Leaper-Carahar,  were  the  very  Marchesa,  then  the 
upper  classes  were  truly  not  what  he  had  been  led  to 
expect. 

He  thought  he  would  not  have  found  that  old  lady 
out  of  place  in  Count  Alley,  for  he  had  taken  stock  of 
her  as  she  left  the  room.  She  was  dressed  like  a  rag- 
bag, with  her  hair  floating  from  a  hat  which  was  all 
askew,  over  a  face  which,  had  she  not  been  a  lady,  he 
would  suspect  her  of  not  having  washed  this  long  time. 
Her  accent  was  not  that  of  a  common  woman  yet  her 
voice  was  so  often  raised  to  a  scream  that  its  refinement 
was  almost  lost.  It  seemed  incredible  that  she  had  en- 
joyed the  same  education  as  Lady  Bland  who,  although 
perhaps  even  more  ridiculous,  was  ridiculous  in  such  a 
dignified  and  ladylike  manner  that  you  felt  no  imperative 
need  to  laugh  in  her  face  any  more  than  you  felt  the 
need  to  laugh  in  the  face  of  that  grand  Protestant  peer. 

The  peer's  name  was  Lord  Queenstown.  The  Mar- 
chioness was  properly  the  Marchesa  della  Venasalvatica, 
an  Italian  title,  but  she  was  an  Englishwoman  and  her 
father  another  lord  whose  title  he  could  not  catch.  The 
other  people  he  saw  were  mere  commoners,  though  the 
large  man  who  complained  of  his  food,  Mr.  Leaper- 
Carahar,  was  a  C.B.  The  bony  gentleman  on  the  stairs 
was  not  really  called  Willy,  as  he  supposed,  but  Molly. 
Officially  he  was  Mr.  Robert  Burns  and  Molly  was  short 
for  Highland  Mary.  Adam  thought  it  far-fetched.  But 
Mr.  Tinkler's  name  really  was  Tinkler,  and  nobody  ever 


292  ADAM  OF  DUBLIN 

called  him  anything  else.  He  was  a  poet  and  easily  took 
offense.  Most  of  these  details  Adam  learned  from  Mr. 
Burns,  who  joined  them  at  their  table  after  Lord  Queens- 
town  had  gone  away.  Adam  noticed  that  the  handsome 
peer  wore  very  curious  trousers.  They  reminded  him  of 
Ally  Sloper's  umbrella.  He  asked  Mr.  Burns  why  Lord 
Queenstown  wore  those  trousers  and  Mr.  Burns  an- 
swered, "  They're  not  trousers  at  all,  old  lad,  they're  the 
ancient  keltic  bracchae.  Queenstown  comes  of  an  awfully 
old  Irish  family,  the  Smithwicks  of  Queenstown  Junction, 
and  he's  frightfully  keen  on  the  family  antiquities.  It's 
lucky  he's  so  jolly  handsome  or  he'd  look  no  end  of  a 
bally  ass  in  them." 

Adam  liked  Mr.  Burns.  He  was  particularly  pleased 
when  he  called  him  "old  lad."  He  called  him,  in  re- 
sponse, Molly,  and  Mr.  Burns  took  it  all  right.  He  was 
notably  a  gentleman,  like  Father  Innocent,  and  that 
Frenchman,  and  Father  Tuite,  and  Mr.  O'Meagher  of 
Sandy  Cove.  He  felt  less  certain  about  the  gentility 
of  some  of  the  people  he  saw  that  evening,  but,  no  doubt, 
they  were  all  right  really,  and  it  was  his  ignorance  of 
the  customs  of  good  society  that  was  to  blame.  He  was 
glad  that  no  one  pretended  to  think  that  Lady  Eland's 
husband  was  a  gentleman. 

Presently  they  heard  a  piano  going  in  another  room 
and  Mr.  Burns  said,  "  That's  my  wife,"  and  that  French- 
man immediately  paid  his  bill  and  brought  Adam  into 
that  other  room,  that  had  practically  no  one  in  it  but 
themselves  and  the  pianist,  and,  the  pianist  Adam  was 
thrilled  to  see  was  that  brilliant  lady,  the  mother  of 


BECOMES  A  MAN  OF  THE  WORLD      293 

Babs.  He  gazed  upon  her  open-mouthed.  She  was  really 
so  brilliant,  with  sparkling  eyes,  hair,  cheeks,  teeth,  lips, 
fingers  and  manners  and  played  away  grandly  though  no 
one  took  any  notice  of  her  except  that  Frenchman  who 
stood  by  her  side  to  turn  over  her  music,  to  which,  how- 
ever, she  seldom  referred. 

"  I  am  just  opening  the  ball,"  she  explained,  looking 
up  at  him  archly. 

"  It  is  magnificent,"  he  answered,  as  though  commenc- 
ing a  sentence,  the  end  of  which  was  unnecessary.  The 
door  opened  and  Adam  hoped  it  was  Babs.  It  was  not 
she  but  the  next  best  thing,  or  the  next  best  thing  but 
one.  It  was  her  father. 

Mr.  Burns  came  in  smoking.  "  Hallo,  Lesbia,"  he  said 
cheerily,  adding  surprisedly,  "I  see  you're  not  alone. 
What  comes  next?  The  Marchesa  has  dropped  the  pro- 
gram off  her  bicycle  and  can't  tell  me  anything  except  that 
damped  sword  dance." 

"  Don't  speak  so  loud,  dear,"  said  Mrs.  Burns,  playing 
grandly  away,  for  she  was  quite  free  from  the  affectation 
of  the  Abbe  Liszt.  "  I'm  not  sure  whether  the  sword 
dance  has  fallen  through  or  not.  Anyhow,  the  Infant 
Druids  have  come,  dear  little  fellows.  They  are  in  the 
corner  by  the  smoking-room  door.  Mr.  Tinkler's  looking 
after  them.  He's  next  on  the  program.  Going  to  read 
either  a  play  or  a  sonnet.  I  forget  which." 

"  Gosh,"  said  Mr.  Burns.    "  Don't  say  it's  a  play." 

His  wife  drowned  the  exclamation  in  her  music  and 
her  music  in  her  own  voice.  "  Anyhow,  do  try  and  get 
some  one  to  listen  to  him.  He's  so  easily  offended. 


294  ADAM  OF  DUBLIN 

Get  Miss  Magrath.  She  wants  to  be  on  the  committee, 
and  perhaps  the  auditor  will  come  if  he's  done  with  the 
wine  account.  I'm  sure  he  can't  make  head  nor  tail 
of  it.  And  why  isn't  Babs  here  and  Miss  Macfie  ?  And 
then  there's  Lord  Queenstown.  He  used  to  be  a  member 
of  the  Cork  Literary  Society.  Anyhow,  put  one  or  two 
of  the  maids  behind  the  folding  doors  to  clap.  I'll  go 
on  playing  till  you  come  back."  As  he  reached  the 
door  she  called  after  him,  "  Oh,  and  try  if  you  can't  get 
Mrs.  Ahearn.  She'll  be  on  after  that  anyhow.  You 
might  tell  her  that.  I  suppose  it's  no  use  asking  Mr. 
Leaper-Carahar." 

"  No  earthly,"  said  Mr.  Burns.  "  He'd  see  Tinkler 
damned  first." 

Mrs.  Burns  sighed  brilliantly.  "  You  men,  you  men !  " 
and  dashed  from  one  end  of  the  keyboard  to  the  other. 
"  Anyhow,  I'll  go  on  playing  until  you  find  some  one." 

Mrs.  Burns  never  allowed  her  fingers  an  idle  moment 
while  she  talked,  nor  her  tongue  an  idle  moment  while 
she  played.  They  were  rivals  in  the  display  of  her  ac- 
complishments. When  she  came  to  what  ought  to  have 
been  the  end  of  one  of  the  pieces  on  the  music  stand 
that  Frenchman  forcibly,  though  most  courteously  re- 
strained her  from  further  violence  to  the  piano.  "  But  I 
promised  Molly  to  go  on  until  some  one  came,"  she  pro- 
tested with  a  brilliant  pout. 

"  Some  promises  are  unconscionable,"  that  Frenchman 
answered.  "  It  may  be  that  no  one  will  ever  come." 

Mrs.  Burns  looked  alarmed.  "It  would  be  dreadful 
if  the  concert  fell  through.  I  don't  so  much  mjind  the 


BECOMES  A  MAN  OF  THE  WORLD      295 

sword  dance  falling  through,  though  I'd  be  sorry  the  dear 
little  Druids  should  be  disappointed."  She  appealed  to 
Adam.  "Wouldn't  it  be  dreadful  if  the  concert  fell 
through  ?  "  But  Adam  was  too  entranced  by  her  bril- 
liancy to  answer. 

"  Worse  things  have  happened,"  said  that  Frenchman. 
"  But  if  energy  can  save  it  let  me  try."  He  took  her 
place  and  flung  himself  into  a  furious  rendering  of  St. 
Saen's  Danse  Macabre.  In  a  moment  the  club  woke  to 
life,  and  through  all  three  doors  members  and  guests 
filtered  until  the  room  was  comfortably  full. 

"  It  is  amazing  the  public  taste  in  music,"  said  that 
Frenchman.  "You  were  giving  them  Brahms  and  they 
took  no  notice.  I  give  them  nonsense  and  in  they  come 
at  once." 

"Ah,  but  it  was  your  touch  that  made  all  the  differ- 
ence," said  Mrs.  Burns,  and  Adam  found  her  brilliant 
even  in  her  modesty. 

"Believe  me,  my  dear  lady,  that  it  was  not?"  said 
that  Frenchman.  "There  is  hardly  a  person  in  this 
illustrious  audience  competent  to  distinguish  the  touch 
of  an  ostrich  from  that  of  an  elephant.  Some  of  them 
would  believe  me  if  I  said  that  I  had  just  played  the 
Moonlight  Sonata." 

"  Ah !  "  said  the  brilliant  lady.  "  That  is  only  because 
anything  you  said  about  music  no  one  could  think  of 
questioning.  If  you  told  me  you  had  just  played  the 
Moonlight  Sonata  I  would  say  to  myself,  '  How  wonder- 
ful it  is,  one  great  artist  interpreting  another.  The  music 
was  perhaps  Beethoven's,  but  the  execution,  the  expres- 


296  rADAM  OF  DUBLIN 

sion  should  I  say,  was  certainly  Herr  Behre's.  And 
what  does  it  matter  what  Herr  Behre  plays  so  long  as  it 
is  Herr  Behre  through  whose  temperament  the  original 
is  passed.'  I  am  sure  that  all  the  members  of  the  club 
who  understand  music  feel  as  I  do." 

"  God  forgive  them,"  murmured  Herr  Behre. 

Mrs.  Burns  turned  to  Adam.  "You  agree  with  me, 
don't  you?" 

"Yes,  m'm,"  said  Adam  promptly,  looking  in  her 
brilliant  eyes,  subconsciously  guilty  of  a  breach  of  one 
of  these  queer  old  things,  the  Ten  Commandments. 

Mrs.  Burns  did  not  scorn  his  admiration.  "  He  looks 
artistic,"  she  said.  "  He  has  lovely  hair.  Won't  he  do 
something?" 

Mr.  Behre  asked  sardonically,  "  What  would  you  have 
him  do?" 

"  Naughty,"  said  Mrs.  Burns,  and  thrice  tapped  him 
brilliantly  with  her  fan.  "  I  mean  isn't  he  an  infant 
prodigy?" 

That  Frenchman  turned  to  Adam.  "  Mr.  Macfadden, 
Mrs.  Burns  would  know  if  you  can  sword  dance  ?  " 

Adam  shook  his  head  and  regretted  that  he  had  never 
had  a  sword  in  his  hand,  much  less  beneath  his  feet. 

"  But  you  can  do  something,"  Mrs.  Burns  insisted. 
"  Can't  you  sing,  or  do  a  little  thought  reading,  or  recite, 
or  conjuring  tricks,  or  palmistry,  or  tell  stories,  or  some- 
thing? Why  isn't  Babs  here?  I'm  sure  she'd  think  of 
something  you  could  do  together." 

Herr  Behre  coughed.  "  It  is  not  impossible."  But  Adam 
was  overwhelmed  with  confused  joy  at  the  thought  of 


BECOMES  A  MAN  OF  THE  WORLD      297 

Babs,  the  daughter  of  this  brilliant  woman,  deigning  to 
think  of  something  that  they  might  do  together.  Then, 
carried  on  a  wave  of  glory,  he  answered,  "  I  can  recite." 

The  words  were  scarcely  spoken.  He  did  not  think 
they  were  audible,  but  Mrs.  Burns  caught  them  and 
caught  him  by  the  hand  and  landed  him  into  the  middle 
of  the  room.  Mr.  O'Fallon  will  recite,"  she  said  in  her 
most  brilliant  voice.  Adam  was  conscious  of  a  hush, 
emphasized  by  a  Giggle  from  the  Infant  Druids.  "  What 
will  you  recite,  Mr.  O'Fallon?" 

At  this  moment  Babs  came  in  and  seemed  amused 
to  find  him  in  the  grasp  of  her  mother.  He  said  very 
faintly,  "  La  Belle  Dame  Sans  Merci." 

"  Oh,  how  perfectly  lovely !  "  cried  Mrs.  Burns.  "  He's 
going  to  recite  '  La  Belle  Dame  Sans  Merci,'  by  Brown- 
ing, you  know,  or  is  it  Blake?  That  period.  Every- 
thing is  a  question  of  period.  Please  go  on,  Mr.  O'Fallon, 
or  would  you  like  some  coffee  first,  while  Mr.  Tinkler 
reads  his  play  ?  " 

With  the  eyes  of  Babs  upon  him  Adam  was  not  going 
to  yield  his  pride  of  place  to  any  Mr.  Tinkler.  Although 
the  Marchioness  could  be  heard  at  the  other  end  of  the 
room,  demanding  if  any  one  had  seen  a  pair  of  sword 
bayonets,  and  others  persistently  asked  each  other 
whether  they  had  seen  a  pair  of  scissors,  he  plunged 
into  his  recitation,  delivering  it  with  the  same  vigor  that 
he  had  learned  from  Mr.  Flood  to  throw  into  "Saul's 
Address  "  and  "  My  Old  Arm-chair,"  and  mispronounc- 
ing so  many  words  that  several  passages  sounded  gib- 
berish even  to  himself.  But,  with  all  such  a  basic  note  of 


298  ADAM  OF  DUBLIN 

conviction,  that  he  really  was  a  Knight  at  Arms  and 
suffering  the  inconvenience  of  an  unfortunate  love  affair, 
that  his  polite  bow  at  the  end  called  forth  a  rapturous 
storm  of  applause.  Several  pretty  ladies,  at  least  they 
seemed  very  pretty  at  that  moment,  called  him  a  "  duck," 
and  Babs  said  something  of  the  kind  and  her  mother  said 
all  sorts  of  things,  and  more  than  one  gentleman  said, 
"  It  wasn't  at  all  bad  for  that  sort  of  thing,  better  than 
Tinkler  anyhow."  The  only  note  of  opposition  came  from 
Mr.  Leaper-Carahar,  C.B.,  who  maintained,  without  ad- 
vancing any  argument,  that  he  ought  to  have  his  ears 
boxed.  While  the  Marchesa  dramatically  took  him  in  her 
arms,  kissed  him,  and  declared  he  must  be  an  Infant 
Druid. 

She  would  have  forced  him  by  sheer  strength  of  will, 
supported  by  the  knowledge  that  her  father  was  the 
Earl  of  Derrydown,  to  join  in  the  sword  dance,  then 
and  there,  only,  fortunately,  the  search  for  tRe  weapons 
proved  fruitless  and  that  item  of  the  program  was  finally 
abandoned. 

Meanwhile,  Adam  was  entranced  to  hear  Babs  Burns 
sing  some  old  ballads,  unfortunately  not  very  well,  to 
an  audience  that  was  little  less  than  that  which  had  lis- 
tened to  himself.  Then  Mr.  Tinkler  read  three  sonnets  to 
Herr  Behre,  Mrs.  Burns,  the  Infant  Druids,  Mrs.  Ahearn, 
and  the  auditor.  And  then  Mrs.  Ahern  accompanied 
by  Mrs.  Burns,  sang  the  Jewel  Song  from  Faust,  to 
Herr  Behre,  the  Infant  Druids,  Mr.  Tinkler  and  the 
auditor.  Then  Mr.  Leaper-Carahar,  C.B.,  sang  "  On  the 
Road  to  Mandalay,"  with  a  strong  Rathmines  Cockney 


BECOMES  A  MAN  OF  THE  WORLD      299 

accent,  and  then  a  Mr.  Porphyro  Smith-Pink  recited, 
"  Who  Fears  to  Speak  of  Ninety-Eight  ?  "  to  a  practically 
empty  room,  and  then  the  Marchesa  sang  a  ballad  of  her 
own  composition,  unaccompanied,  which  seemed  to  be  an 
agreed  signal  for  the  company  to  go  home  as  only  Mrs. 
Burns,  Herr  Behre,  Adam,  and  the  Infant  Druids  who 
were  asleep,  remained  to  the  end  of  it. 

And  then,  while  the  Marchesa  was  looking  for  a  copy 
of  Mangan's  poems,  on  which  to  swear  Adam  in,  as 
a  member  of  the  Dark  Rosaleen  or  Mountjoy  Ward 
Branch  of  her  Infant  Druids,  Herr  Behre  seized  his 
opportunity  to  take  him  away. 

"It  has  been  such  a  delightful  evening,"  said  Mrs. 
Burns,  her  brilliancy  little,  if  at  all,  fatigued.  "  Do  come 
again."  She  kissed  Adam  and  he  looked  round  sleepily 
if  Babs  might  be  there  to  kiss  him  too,  but  found  her 
engrossed  by  Mr.  Leaper-Carahar.  Too  sleepy  to  be 
jealous,  he  tumbled  into  a  cab  at  the  door,  and,  reaching 
St.  George's  Place,  had  to  be  undressed  and  put  to  bed 
by  his  host  of  the  evening,  vaguely  conscious  all  the 
while  of  a  running  argument  between  him  and  Miss 
Gannon. 

He  was  wakened  in  the  smallest  hours  by  the  poignant 
thought  that  Father  Innocent  was  dead.  Then,  con- 
soled by  the  feeling  that  he  himself  was  tremendously 
alive,  he  fell  asleep  again.  St.  George's  bells  rang  three 
o'clock.  Father  Innocent  had  been  dead  twenty-four 
hours. 


CHAPTER  XXIX 
THE  LAST  OF  FATHER  INNOCENT 

ADAM'S  young  instinct  for  the  fitness  of  things  called 
him  out  of  bed  in  good  time  on  the  Sunday  morning, 
though  it  was  the  beginning  of  a  leonine  March.  Had 
Father  Innocent  lived  he  would  have  been  going  to  com- 
municate at  eight  o'clock  mass  and,  although  Father 
Innocent  was  dead,  and,  as  he  had  made  no  confession, 
he  could  not  communicate,  he  decided  to  go  to  that  mass 
all  the  same.  So  off  he  went,  bolting  downstairs  to  avoid 
Miss  Gannon,  until  he  came  back  to  breakfast.  He  saw 
no  one  he  knew  at  that  early  hour,  save  Dr.  Hillingdon- 
Ryde  on  his  bicycle  in  Gardiner's  Place,  and  regained  St. 
George's  Place  by  a  quarter  to  nine,  rather  pleased  with 
himself  and  very  hungry.  But  breakfast  was  not  to  be 
had  without  a  battle ;  for  Attracta  opening  the  door  said, 
"  The  mistress  said  you  were  to  go  into  Mr.  Gannon's 
parlor  and  wait  there  until  she  came  to  you." 

Adam  was  not  going  to  tolerate  from  Miss  Gannon 
what  he  would  rather  drown  himself  than  suffer  from 
Father  Tudor.  "Tell  Miss  Gannon  I'll  wait  five  min- 
utes," said  he.  While  Attracta  departed  with  a  dismayed 
grin  he  entered  Mr.  Gannon's  sitting-room,  the  proprietor 
of  which  was  still  snoring  behind  the  folding  doors  which 
led  to  his  bedroom.  A  fire  was  waking  in  the  grate  and 
300 


THE  LAST  OF  FATHER  INNOCENT      301 

the  dry  bones  of  the  breakfast  stood  waiting  on  the 
table,  with  a  copy  of  the  Sunday  Herald  on  a  plate. 
Adam  made  himself  cozy  by  the  fire  and  opened  it  to 
see  II  there  was  anything  more  in  it  about  Father  Inno- 
cent. 

There  was  an  article  written  by  some  one  who  de- 
scribed him  as  "  The  only  surviving  son  of  the  late  Mr. 
Feeley,  who  was  already  a  famous  solicitor  in  Brunswick 
Street,  when  cut  off  at  the  same  early  age  of  forty-five 
as  his  only  learned  and  sanctified  surviving  son."  There 
was  a  reference  to  Mrs.  O'Meagher  as  "  the  deceased's 
sister  married  to  a  prominent  citizen  of  Sandy  Cove, 
formerly  a  member  of  the  Gaelic  League  and  recently 
released  from  Mountjoy  Prison,  all  of  whose  children 
are  destined  for  the  religious  life,  illuminated  by  their 
learned  and  sanctified  uncle,  whose  inimitable  eloquence 
in  the  pulpit  we  are  not  likely  to  see  equaled  or  surpassed 
in  our  time."  The  whole  ended  with  this  statement, 
"  Although  there  were  no  suspicious  circumstances  what- 
ever, connected  with  the  death  of  the  unfortunate  and 
learned  priest,  which  was  the  result  of  an  obvious  mis- 
apprehension on  his  part,  the  coroner  has  decided  that 
in  the  absence  of  natural  causes,  as  certified  by  a  regis- 
tered medical  practitioner,  it  will  be  regrettably  desirable 
for  him  to  hold  a  purely  formal  inquest.  The  funeral 
will  take  place  at  Glasnevin  Cemetery  at  eleven  a.m.  on 
Tuesday  morning." 

That  was  the  last  Adam  read  of  Father  Innocent  in 
a  public  print  and  it  dashed  his  good  spirits;  not  only 
because  of  Father  Innocent  but  because  of  Josephine, 


302  ADAM  OF  DUBLIN 

the  account  of  whose  death  he  might  one  day  be  read- 
ing thus.  Did  the  children  of  people  who  died  young,  die 
young  too?  How  old  was  Mrs.  O'Meagher?  His  own 
father  was  forty-nine  when  he  met  his  end.  Would  he 
have  lived  much  longer  if  he  hadn't  fallen  downstairs 
when  he  was  drunk?  And  his  mother,  how  old  was 
she?  He  didn't  want  to  die  young  even  to  be  with 
Father  Innocent  in  heaven.  He  would  rather  be  in  that 
queer  place  in  Stephen's  Green,  reciting  "  La  Belle  Dame 
Sans  Merci"  to  pretty  ladies  who  called  him  a  duck. 
He  had  a  notion  that  in  heaven  the  lady  angels  were 
very  reserved  in  their  language.  They  had  to  be  for 
fear  of  making  God  jealous.  Heaven  was  a  dull  sort  of 
place.  He  would  rather  be  with  Babs  Burns  or  her 
mother  in  Stephen's  Green  than  with  Father  Innocent  in 
heaven.  Father  Innocent  liked  heaven,  no  doubt,  but 
his  taste  was  austere.  He  liked  the  Botanic  Gardens 
and  described  Glasnevin  Cemetery  as  if  it  were  an  earthly 
paradise.  Adam  thought  it  a  beastly  hole.  He  shud- 
dered at  the  thought  of  it.  Still  he  would  go  to  Father 
Innocent's  funeral.  Eleven  o'clock  on  Tuesday  morning. 
St.  George's  bells  rang  nine  o'clock.  Miss  Gannon's 
five  minutes  were  gone  twice  over.  She  was  trying  it 
on.  Adam  was  not  going  to  stand  that  even  though 
hungry  for  breakfast.  He  put  the  paper,  refolded  neatly, 
back  on  Mr.  Gannon's  plate  and  quietly,  though  undis- 
guisedly,  left  the  room  and  ascended  to  his  bedroom. 
He  was  within  a  step  of  his  landing  when  he  heard  his 
landlady  call  shrilly  from  below,  "Adam  Macfadden, 
Adam  Macfadden."  Adam  leaned  over  the  banister  to 


THE  LAST  OF  FATHER  INNOCENT      303 

answer,  with  a  fair  self-possession,  "  Well,  Miss  Gannon, 
what  is  it?" 

He  heard  her  run  up  some  few  steps  in  her  irritation 
before  she  cried  again,  "  Didn't  that  girl  give  you  my 
message  to  wait  downstairs  till  I  could  come  to  you  ?  " 

"  She  did,"  Adam  said.  "  Didn't  she  give  you  mine, 
that  I'd  wait  five  minutes  ?  " 

Miss  Gannon's  rising  fury  carried  her  to  the  top  of 
the  first  flight.  "  D'you  think  she'd  have  the  impudence 
to  give  me  such  a  message  ?  " 

"  I  didn't  think  about  it  at  all,"  said  Adam,  his  tone 
and  heart  both  hardening.  "  I  know  I  waited  fully  ten 
minutes  and  gave  you  every  chance." 

"Arrah!  and  what  are  you  talking  about?"  screamed 
Miss  Gannon,  taking  the  second  flight  of  the  stairs  at 
a  rush  and  speaking  now  from  the  first-floor  landing. 
"  D'you  think  I'm  going  to  take  impudence  from  you  in 
my  own  house  ?  " 

"  We  need  not  discuss  that,"  said  Adam,  more  pleased 
with  the  hauteur  of  his  own  language  than  offended  by 
the  lowness  of  hers.  "  Will  you  please  to  let  me  have  my 
breakfast?" 

As  he  turned  and  shut  his  door  Miss  Gannon  either 
shrieked  or  laughed,  in  the  manner  of  a  hyena;  and, 
with  admirable  elan  for  a  lady  of  her  years,  scaled  the 
two  flights  of  stairs  and  charged  through  Adam's  door. 
In  an  instant  she  had  Adam's  left  ear  between  her  right 
finger  and  thumb,  and  she  was  spitting  out  the  words, 
'*  I'll  learn  you  to  give  me  impudence,  you  little 
bastard ! " 


304  ADAM  OF  DUBLIN 

Poor  Miss  Gannon  had  momentarily  forgotten  herself 
or  she  certainly  would  not  have  used  this  term.  Quite 
apart  from  the  physical  anguish  in  his  ear,  she  made 
Adam  see  red  and  her  shy,  facial  beauty  ran  an  instant's 
risk  of  being  obliterated.  But  he  well  knew  how  to 
repulse  irate  females,  without  causing  them  grievous 
bodily  harm,  and  he  knew  that  Father  Innocent  would 
not  like  him  to  hurt  Miss  Gannon,  or  any  woman;  so 
he  just  put  his  right  heel  smartly  behind  hers,  chucking 
her  the  while  under  her  chin,  and  Miss  Gannon  was 
horrified  to  find  herself  rolling  backwards  on  Adam's 
bed,  giving  him  an  ample  opportunity  to  admire  her 
legs,  had  he  been  in  a  mood  to  do  so. 

But  Adam  was  preoccupied  with  his  ear,  which  bled 
freely,  when  Herr  Behre  appeared.  He  gazed  sternly 
from  Adam  to  Miss  Gannon,  then  said,  "  I  hope  I  do  not 
intrude." 

Miss  Gannon  had  scarcely  presence  of  mind  to  cover 
her  ankles  before  answering  hysterically,  "  He  assaulted 
and  battered  me." 

Adam  withered  under  the  severity  of  Herr  Behre's 
frown.  "  And  on  Sunday  too,  of  all  days !  as  Ibsen 
says.  My  dear  Miss  Gannon,  you  must  leave  this  young 
gallant  to  me.  I  will  see  that  this  never  occurs  again. 
We  have  all  made  mistakes  in  our  time.  Come,  Mac- 
fadden,  you  go  with  me."  He  pushed  Adam  roughly 
out  of  the  door,  and  Adam,  perplexed  and  crestfallen, 
climbed  to  the  room  above.  He  deemed  that  French- 
man really  rather  stupid  not  to  see  that  he  had  neither 
hurt  Miss  Gannon  or  made  any  attempt  to  do  so.  He 


THE  LAST  OF  FATHER  INNOCENT      305 

was  the  only  sufferer  in  the  fray;  for  Miss  Gannon  had 
not  released  his  ear,  without  leaving  a  deep  scratch 
across  the  lobe,  from  which  the  blood  had  poured  on  to 
his  collar  and  shirt,  before  he  put  his  handkerchief  to 
it,  and  his  handkerchief  was  now  all  gules.  He  did  not 
care  to  sit  down  in  that  Frenchman's  room,  but  stood 
by  the  window  listening  to  the  clatter  of  Miss  Gannon's 
tongue,  punctuated  by  a  soothing,  "  There,  there,"  from 
that  Frenchman. 

Then  he  heard  the  latter  on  the  landing.  "No,  no, 
my  dear  madam,  you  must  not  distress  yourself,  by 
telling  me  in  detail  what  passed.  I  have  imagination. 
The  danger  is  over  now.  Boys  will  be  boys.  I  will  not 
hear  another  word  lest  you  make  yourself  ill.  Send 
Macfadden's  breakfast  up  to  my  room  ..."  Here  Miss 
Gannon  interrupted  with  some  brief  phrase  which  Adam 
took  to  be  that  she  would  not.  That  Frenchman  amiably 
went  on,  "  Ah,  it  was  thoughtless  of  me  to  demand  that. 
Your  passions  are  still  too  perturbed,  charming  lady. 
Rest  here,  on  Macfadden's  bed.  He  will  not  molest  you 
again,  while  I  descend  to  the  kitchen  and  prepare  our 
breakfasts  with  your  domestic." 

Adam  heard  Miss  Gannon  bound  out  on  to  the  land- 
ing. "  No  man  will  ever  enter  my  kitchen,"  she  said 
dramatically,  as  though  it  were  a  vestal  if  metaphorical 
vow. 

Herr  Behre  answered  politely,  "  I  will  if  you  wish  it, 
but  I  have  no  desire.  If  you  feel  well  enough  to  prepare 
them  with  your  usual  care  I  think  the  breakfasts  are 
better  left  to  you." 


306  ADAM  OF  DUBLIN 

"  I'm  not  going  to  give  that  impudent  brat  any  break- 
fast," said  she. 

"  Excuse  me,"  said  Herr  Behre,  and  dropped  his  voice 
so  that  the  next  thing  Adam  heard  was  a  surly,  "  We'll 
see,"  from  Miss  Gannon,  as  she  descended  the  stairs. 

That  Frenchman  came  up  to  his  own  room  with  a 
somewhat  mephistophelian  smile.  "  She  bit  your  ear  ?  " 
he  asked. 

Adam,  who  had  nerved  himself  for  the  threatened 
scolding,  answered  rather  grievously,  "  She  scratched  it." 

"  That  is  perhaps  not  quite  so  dangerous,"  said  his 
host,  opening  a  small  hanging  cupboard,  "but  we'll  put 
some  boracic  on  it."  Adam  doctored  and  ensconced  by 
the  fire,  he  asked  him  what  had  happened,  and  the  boy, 
grasping  by  this  time,  that  his  host's  conduct  downstairs 
had  been  purely  diplomatic,  answered  as  faithfully  as 
he  was  wont  to  answer  Father  Innocent. 

Herr  Behre  listened  with  twinkling  eyes,  but  a  some- 
what melancholy  mouth.  "That  is  the  devil  of  it,"  he 
declared.  "  We  men  have  brutalized  women  for  such 
countless  ages  that  the  few  of  them  who  have  the  courage 
to  show  their  independence  either  give  a  feeble  imitation 
of  the  silliest  sort  of  man,  or  else  behave  like  mad  cows. 
Miss  Gannon  belongs  to  the  one  type  and  our  dear 
Marchesa  to  the  other." 

"I  prefer  the  Marchesa,"  Adam  blurted. 

"  You  might  not  if  you  depended  on  her  for  your 
meals,"  said  Herr  Behre  dryly.  "  I  confess  I  prefer  poor 
Miss  Gannon.  She  has  made  the  best  of  her  wretched 
opportunities,  according  to  her  miserable  lights,  whereas 


THE  LAST  OF  FATHER  INNOCENT      307 

the  Marchesa  has  squandered  many  gifts  of  fortune  in 
the  pursuit  of  downright  imbecilities.  Not  that  I  have 
a  word  to  say  against  our  dear  Marchesa,  who,  accord- 
ing to  her  friend  the  great  Macarthy,  can  no  more  help 
her  faults  than  I  can  help  mine." 

Here  Attracta  appeared  with  the  breakfasts.  Miss 
Gannon  justified  Herr  Behre's  opinion  of  her  by  sending 
up  Adam's  with  a  little  bacon  as  it  always  was  on 
Sunday  mornings,  except  in  Lent.  She  was  not  the 
woman  to  palter  in  a  double  sense,  or  that  Frenchman 
would  not  have  remained  for  so  many  years  beneath  her 
roof.  Adam  found  himself  forgiving  her  the  assault 
on  his  ear  before  he  had  finished  his  first  cup  of  tea, 
but  it  was  still  smarting  under  the  boracic,  and  he  had 
no  intention  of  risking  a  further  offense  to  his  dignity 
from  Miss  Gannon.  He  was  too  nearly  thirteen  for  that. 

That  Frenchman  perhaps  read  his  thought,  for  he  said, 
"You  think  you  must  leave  here.  Can  you?" 

Adam's  heart  fell,  for  he  had  not  foreseen  any  diffi- 
culty in  the  matter.  It  was  Father  Innocent  who  had 
brought  him  there,  and  now  that  he  was  no  longer  alive, 
there  seemed  to  be  no  reason  why  he  should  not  go 
elsewhere.  But  the  question  arose  who  was  to  pay  the 
piper  if  he  danced  away?  Ultimate  financial  respon- 
sibility rested,  he  believed,  with  Father  Muldoon.  And 
Father  Muldoon,  he  felt  instinctively,  would  not  only 
insist  on  his  remaining  under  Miss  Gannon's  thumb  but 
would  surrender  him  to  the  mercies  of  Father  Tudor. 
He  made  up  his  mind  at  once.  "  I'll  have  to  go  back  sell- 
ing papers,"  said  he. 


308  ADAM  OF  DUBLIN 

Herr  Behre  smiled  at  him  very  pleasantly.  "I  am 
glad  that  is  your  decision,"  said  he.  "  So  far  as  I  can 
judge  it  is  the  right  one.  So  long  as  you  remain  here 
you  will  not  be  safe  from  the  nails  of  the  good  Miss 
Gannon,  now  that  she  has  once  drawn  blood.  But  I 
can  secure  you  a  day  or  two  of  immunity  from  her  until 
we  can  find  out  what  the  position  of  .your  affairs  may 
exactly  be.  So  far  as  possible  we  must  fulfil  Father 
Innocent's  wishes,  and  we  know  he  did  not  require  you 
to  return  to  Belvedere,  so  you  may  clear  your  mind 
of  that  nightmare.  Tell  me  more  about  your  friend, 
Father  Innocent's  brother-in-law.  He  seems  to  be  the 
only  serious  person  you  know." 

Adam  was  deep  in  the  subject  of  Mr.  O'Meagher  and 
his  family  at  Sandy  Cove  when  Attracta,  who  had  al- 
ready cleared  the  breakfast  things,  reappeared  with  the 
announcement,  that  there  was  a  gentleman  below  who 
demanded  to  see  Adam.  St.  George's  bells  struck  eleven. 
Miss  Gannon  was  safe  in  church,  but  the  news-  of  the 
stranger  below  startled  Adam.  Was  it  Father  Muldoon 
or  Father  Tudor  himself,  or  an  emissary  from  one  or 
the  other?  No,  it  was  a  gentleman  and  not  a  priest. 
No  gentleman  had  ever  called  upon  him  at  St.  George's 
Place.  No  one  but  Father  Innocent  had  called  there. 
Even  the  intriguing  Mr.  O'Toole  never  ventured  so  far, 
and  his  mother  only  came  once  or  twice  by  ceremonial 
appointment. 

That  Frenchman  marked  his  trepidation.  "  You  may 
be  sure  it  is  a  friend,"  he  said.  "  Probably  this  Mr. 
O'Meagher.  If  so,  bring  him  up  here." 


THE  LAST  OF  FATHER  INNOCENT      309 

He  was  right.  Adam  rushed  downstairs  into  the  arms 
of  Josephine's  father,  who  greeted  him  nervously  with 
the  words,  "  Now,  don't  you  cry,  or  say  anything  to 
start  me  off  crying.  I've  had  more  than  enough  of  that  at 
Sandy  Cove.  You'd  think  heaven  was  the  Black  Hole 
of  Calcutta,  the  way  my  wife's  carrying  on  at  the  thought 
of  her  brother  going  there.  I  told  her  it  was  the  only 
place  a  man  like  him  was  fit  for.  But  she  won't  listen 
to  reason.  The  truth  is  she  thinks  I've  got  to  be  damned 
now,  because  he's  lost  his  chance  of  converting  me,  by 
going  to  heaven  first.  But  that  isn't  what  I  came  here 
to  talk  to  you  about.  Of  course  Innocent's  a  great  loss. 
I  didn't  know  how  much  he  and  you  were  to  one  an- 
other until  yesterday  morning." 

"  Yesterday  morning,"  Adam  repeated,  wondering  how 
he  came  to  hear  of  it  then. 

"Yesterday  morning,"  Mr.  O'Meagher  reiterated. 
"  You  must  have  been  the  last  thing  in  his  mind,  for  he 
wrote  to  me  about  you  and  went  out  and  posted  the  letter 

himself  immediately  before — before "  Mr.  O'Meagher 

palpably  broke  down  here,  but  turned  it  off  by  saying, 
"I  see  you've  been  on  the  tiles  and  got  your  ear 
scratched,  or  was  it  Father  Tudor  did  it?  Terrible  man 
Tudor,  I  remember  him  well.  He  was  just  beginning  his 
devilments  when  I  was  young.  Stephen  Macarthy's  the 
fellow  to  tell  you  all  about  Father  Tudor.  He's  kept 
his  eye  on  him  all  these  years.  Quite  in  a  friendly  way, 
you  know.  Macarthy's  an  easy-going  chap,  but  he's  a 
lot  deeper  than  you  would  think  to  look  at  him.  Have 
you  ever  seen  him  at  all  there  in  College  Street,  drinking 


310  ADAM  OF  DUBLIN 

tea  with  a  face  on  him  like  an  Irish  Sphinx  ?  Sometimes 
I  think  he's  a  very  bad  man.  He  says  Gaelic  is  a  waste 
of  time.  Have  you  ever  met  him,  tell  me?  I  think  you 
ought  to  meet  him.  He  used  to  be  a  great  friend  of 
Josephine's.  He  found  out  the  right  sort  of  bottle  to 
give  her  when  she  was  a  baby  and  you'd  think  she'd  be 
grateful  to  him  ever  since.  But  now  her  mother  says  that 
it  isn't  right  for  any  man,  let  alone  a  bachelor,  to  know 
a  thing  like  that.  The  child  was  dying  in  her  hands  only 
for  him.  It's  wonderful  how  particular  babies  are.  Espe- 
cially ladies.  It  isn't  so  much  about  having  an  elegant 
shape  to  the  bottle  as  you'd  expect,  but  getting  it  with 
the  same  sort  of  hole  both  ends.  They  say  it  makes  it 
easier  to  clean.  I'm  sure  I  don't  know.  My  wife  thinks 
that  if  she  buys  milk  from  a  good  Catholic  it's  bound  to 
be  all  right.  She  won't  believe  me  when  I  tell  her  that 
cows  have  no  religion.  She  thinks  it  blasphemy.  Oh, 
life's  not  such  fun  at  Sandy  Cove  as  you  might  think,  to 
see  us  playing  musical  chairs  at  Christmas." 

All  this  Mr.  O'Meagher  said  in  the  hall  of  St.  George's 
Place,  outside  Mr.  Gannon's  door,  between  eleven  and 
a  quarter  past.  Adam  well  understood  the  source  of 
his  agitation  and  awaited  patiently  the  opportunity  to 
bring  him  upstairs.  "Please,  there's  a  friend  of  mine 
would  like  to  meet  you,"  he  said. 

"  A  friend  of  yours,  certainly,"  replied  Mr.  O'Meagher. 
"  What's  his  name  and  where  is  he  ?  " 

"  He's  upstairs/'  Adam  answered,  "  and  his  name  is 
Hairy  Bear." 

"His  name  is  what?     You're  having  a  bit  of  fun 


THE  LAST  OF  FATHER  INNOCENT      311 

with  me,"  the  visitor  protested.  But  on  Adam  explain- 
ing that  the  gentleman  with  the  zoological  name  was 
a  Frenchman,  he  slapped  the  side  of  his  head  and  cried, 
"Am  not  I  an  idiot?  Your  friend's  name  is  Heribert. 
That's  as  plain  as  a  pikestaff.  I've  never  heard  of  him 
but  that  will  make  it  all  the  pleasanter  to  meet  him.  Re- 
mind me  that  I've  got  to  talk  to  you  about  other  things 
afterwards.  In  your  room,  is  he?  Where's  that?  You 
show  the  way." 

Within  two  minutes  he  was  in  the  front  top  room, 
presenting  himself  to  the  occupant.  "  My  name's 
O'Meagher.  Glad  to  meet  you,  Monsieur  Heribert,  see- 
ing you're  a  friend  of  Adam's — I  am  afraid  he  has 
damned  few." 

"  They  will  come,  Mr.  O'Meagher,"  the  musician  an- 
swered gravely.  "  They  are  coming  already.  But  I  can- 
not claim  to  be  Monsieur  Heribert.  My  name  is  Behre. 
Heinrich  or  Henrik  or  Hendrik,  or  Henry,  or  Harry,  or 
Henri,  or  Enrico  Behre,  as  you  will." 

"  But  Behre  isn't  a  French  name  at  all,"  said  Mr. 
O'Meagher,  "and  you're  no  more  a  Frenchman  than 
I  am." 

Mr.  Behre  bowed  and  smiled.  "  Did  I  claim  that  dis- 
tinction ?  " 

"  Aren't  you  a  German  ?  "  Mr.  O'Meagher  insisted. 

"I  do  not  so  regard  myself,"  said  the  musician. 

"  A  bit  ashamed  of  it,"  suggested  Mr.  O'Meagher. 

Herr  Behre  shrugged  his  shoulders.  "As  much  as  I 
regret  being  near  two  meters  high  and  having  a  red 
nose." 


312  ADAM  OF  DUBLIN 

Mr.  O'Meagher  nodded.  "You  would  have  been  an 
Irishman  if  you  could?" 

"Preferably,"  said  Herr  Behre,  "I  would  not  have 
been." 

Mr.  O'Meagher  hummed  disconsolately.  "  Faith,  I  feel 
like  that  myself.  Time  was  I  had  great  ideas  about 
France." 

"  So  had  I,"  said  the  musician.  "  Heine,  Das  Buck, 
Legrand.  All  that  sort  of  thing  I've  quite  got  over 
them." 

"  And  I,"  said  Mr.  O'Meagher.  "  I  like  my  own  coun- 
try best  now." 

"  You  would  not,"  returned  the  other,  "  if  she  were 
cock  of  the  walk." 

"  No,"  Mr.  O'Meagher  agreed.  "  I'd  want  to  wring  her 
blessed  neck." 

"  My  feeling,"  said  the  other.    "  I  was  born  in  '48." 

Mr.  O'Meagher  looked  at  him  agape.  "  The  deuce  you 
were.  And  I  thought  I  was  talking  to  a  man  of  my  own 
age.  It's  easy  to  see  you've  never  had  the  cares  of  a 
family  upon  you." 

The  other  smiled  indulgently  but  did  not  pursue  the 
subject.  "  Mr.  Macfadden  is  my  chief  care  at  present," 
was  all  he  said. 

This  brought  the  visitor  to  quick  attention.  "That's 
what  I've  come  about.  We  may  talk  before  you?" 

"  Unless  Mr.  Macfadden  objects."    Herr  Behre  glanced 
at  him.    With  a  lucky  gesture  Adam  took  a  hand  of  each, 
saying  nothing. 
•     Mr.  O'Meagher  had  taken  the  edge  off  his  conversa- 


THE  LAST  OF  FATHER  INNOCENT      313 

tional  fury  in  the  hall  below,  and  used  no  superfluous 
words  in  explaining  the  situation  as  he  understood  it. 
Father  Innocent  had  written  him  on  the  Friday  night 
to  say  that  things  had  happened  at  Belvedere  which 
made  it  impossible  for  Adam  to  remain  there,  and  asked 
whether,  in  the  event  of  Father  Muldoon  thinking  it 
his  prerogative  to  withhold  supplies,  a  temporary  refuge 
could  be  found  for  him  at  Sandy  Cove.  "And  sure 
my  wife  and  I  would  be  delighted  to  have  you  for  now 
and  ever  after,"  he  declared.  "  But  she's  so  distracted 
by  poor  Father  Innocent's  death  that  I  can't  get  any 
sense  out  of  her  at  all.  Nothing  can  be  done  until 
after  the  ...  funeral  anyhow." 

The  two  men  exchanged  quick  glances  which  did  not 
escape  Adam's  notice. 

Mr.  Behre  said  easily,  "  There  is  no  reason  to  trouble 
about  that.  He  can  remain  here  as  long  as  he  likes,  so 
far  as  I  can  foresee." 

"Very  kind  of  you,  Behre,"  said  Mr.  O'Meagher. 
"  But  it's  not  fair  that  you  ..." 

The  musician  had  stopped  him.  "  In  this  world  there 
is  no  such  thing  as  fairness.  There  is  content  and  dis- 
content. I  shall  be  fully  content  to  keep  him  as  my 
guest  so  long  as  he  cares  to  stay." 

"  Well,  that's  a  great  weight  off  my  mind,"  said  Mr. 
O'Meagher,  "  though  what  my  poor  brother-in-law  would 
make  of  it,  I  really  don't  know.  I'll  be  glad  when  Tues- 
day's over." 

"  I'm  coming  to  the  funeral,"  said  Adam.  "  I  mean,  if 
I  may" 


3H  ADAM  OF  DUBLIN 

Mr.  O'Meagher  shrugged  his  shoulders.  "Of  course 
you  may,  if  you  like,"  said  he.  "  But  what's  the  good  of 
it  to  you  or  any  one  else?  I  have  to  go,  because  there's 
no  one  else  in  the  family  to  look  after  it,  and  you  can't 
trust  to  the  undertakers,  not  to  put  the  coffin  in  upside 
down  in  the  wrong  grave.  Or  goodness  knows  what. 
But  I'm  sure  poor  Innocent,  who  was  the  simplest  fellow 
on  the  face  of  the  earth,  as  he  will  be  beneath  it,  would 
have  hated  the  idea  of  you,  or  any  one  else,  wasting  your 
time  trapesing  after  his  mortal  remains  to  Glasnevin 
and,  maybe,  catching  your  death  of  cold  in  the  wet  grass. 
No,  begad !  He  may  have  been,  as  they  say,  a  bit  mad, 
but  he  wasn't  so  mad  as  all  that." 

"  If  you  think  he  wouldn't  like  me  to  go,"  said  Adam, 

"  of  course  I  won't.  But  whoever  said "  His  eyes 

filled  with  tears  as  he  spoke,  through  clenched  teeth. 
"  Who  dares  to  say  that  he  was  mad  ?  " 

Mr.  O'Meagher  answered  with  little  less  bitterness. 
"  Twenty  brave  boyos  will  be  called  on  to  say  so  by  the 
city  coroner  to-morrow." 

"  Ach,"  said  Mr.  Behre  in  a  warning  voice.  But  Mr. 
O'Meagher  heard  only  Adam  asking  why  that  should  be, 
and  went  on,  "  Did  nobody  tell  you  that  poor  Innocent 
killed  himself?" 

"  Killed  himself !  "  screamed  Adam. 

"  Oh,  not  intentionally,"  said  Mr.  O'Meagher.  "  Just 
out  of  pure  holiness.  He  tried  to  eat  his  Rosary  beads. 
He  got  down  ten  Hail  Marys  all  right,  but  the  Our 
Father  was  too  much  for  him.  Virtue  rewarded.  Who'll 
doubt  it."  He  hit  the  table  a  sledgehammer  blow  with 


THE  LAST  OF  FATHER  INNOCENT     315 

his  fist.  "  And  here  am  I  with  my  two  sons,  going  the 
same  way,  and  my  daughter,  my  only  daughter  ..." 
He  became  inarticulate  and  Mr.  Behre,  catching  his  eye, 
opened  the  door  for  him  to  pass  out  and  followed  him 
downstairs.  Adam  sat  staring  at  a  photograph  over  the 
mantelpiece.  It  represented  a  very  plain,  middle-aged 
woman,  with  the  winning  smile  of  genius  transcending 
her  dull  features.  Across  the  right-hand  bottom  corner 
ran  two  lines  of  writing. 

From  the  hall,  vaguely,  came  the  name  of  Macarthy. 
It  was  repeated.  Adam  wondered  what  was  being  said. 
He  also  wondered  what  were  the  lines  on  the  photograph. 
He  went  to  the  mantelpiece  and  examined  it,  reading 
in  clear  foreign  writing,  "  To  comrade  H.  B.  from  E.  M.," 
and,  beneath  that,  the  one  word  in  Mr.  Behre's  own  writ- 
ing, "Vorwarts." 

Adam  thought  her  an  uncommonly  plain  lady,  plainer 
than  his  mother,  almost  as  plain  as  Miss  Gannon,  but 
more  human ;  so  human  that  she  made  him  think  of 
Caroline  Brady.  Yes,  and  of  Josephine  O'Meagher. 
Yes,  and  of  some  one  else,  Miss  Burns,  or  even  Mrs. 
Burns,  or  both  ? 

And  he  was  not  yet  thirteen,  and  Father  Innocent 
was  dead.  .  .  .  And  what  was  the  meaning  of  the  word, 
"Vorwarts"? 

Was  it  French?  It  did  not  look  like  it.  ...  And 
that  Frenchman  was  not  really  French,  but  German. 
It  was  a  queer  world.  Not  at  all  like  what  Father  Inno- 
cent had  led  him  to  expect.  And  Father  Innocent  was 
dead.  .  .  He  had  killed  himself  because  the  world  was 


3i6  ADAM  OF  DUBLIN 

too  queer  for  him.  It  was  a  terrible  world,  surely !  But 
Adam  rather  liked  the  queerness  of  it.  ...  He  liked, 
too,  the  look  of  that  word  "  Vorwarts."  Was  that  Ger- 
man? He  must  learn  German.  Faust  was  a  German. 

When  his  host  re-entered  the  room  he  asked  him, 
"  What  does  '  Vorwarts  '  mean?  " 

"  For  me,"  said  Herr  Behre,  "  it  means  the  common 
ground  between  me  and  your  dear  dead  friend.  It  means 
that  I  believe  in  God.  And  that  is  the  difference  between 
us  both  and  the  man  Tudor." 

"  Tudor,"  echoed  Adam,  feverishly  clenching  his  hands. 
"  I  hate  him." 

That  Frenchman  smiled  indulgently.  "Long  before 
you  are  come  to  my  age  you  will  understand  to  pity 
him." 


CHAPTER  XXX 
MR.  MACARTHY  AT  HOME 

WITH  his  teens  Adam  was  fated  to  enter  a  world  which 
was  neither  that  of  Marlborough  Street  nor  Belvedere, 
nor  was  he  to  be  allowed  to  fulfil  his  threat  of  rejoining 
the  newspaper  boys  outside  the  Gresham  Hotel.  A  week 
after  his  last  appearance  at  Belvedere,  Father  Muldoon 
sent  him  a  curt  note  demanding  why  he  had  not  attended 
school  and  directing  him  either  to  do  so  from  the  follow- 
ing Monday,  or  explain  his  reasons.  "  It  may  be  that 
you  are  under  the  impression  that  the  late  Father  Feeley 
of  Marlborough  Street  was  your  legal  guardian,  but  that 
was  not  the  case.  I  may  say  that  I  am  responsible  to 
those  who  are  providing  for  your  upbringing  and  educa- 
tion." 

Adam  submitted  this  communication  to  Herr  Behre, 
who  asked  whether  in  cold  blood,  he  still  objected  to 
going  back  to  Belvedere. 

Adam  blanched  and  reddened.  "  I'd  rather  go  straight 
away  to  hell.  .  .  .  Wouldn't  you?" 

The  musician  smiled.  "  There  should  I  be  fearful  to 
meet  our  Father  Tudor,"  he  declared.  "  But  the  dilemma 
does  not  arise."  He  quoted  Mr.  O'Meagher  as  saying 
there  was  no  question  of  Father  Muldoon  having  any 
power  over  Adam,  apart,  perhaps,  from  the  financial  con- 
Si? 


3i8  ADAM  OF  DUBLIN 

trol.  In  law  the  only  person  who  had  any  right  to  his 
obedience  was  his  mother,  and  she  had  been  guided  by 
Father  Innocent's  advice.  "  The  excellent  Muldoon  may 
say  what  he  would  say,  but  I  understand  that  your  mother 
never  saw  Father  Muldoon  at  all,  and  they  are  mere 
names  to  one  another.  From  what  you  tell  me  of  Father 
Muldoon  I  think  not  he  will  be  hurried  to  invite  the  honor 
of  her  company  at  Gardiner's  Street,  nor  yet  go  pay  a 
visit  upon  her  at  Pleasant  Street  in  state." 

Adam  wondered  why  Father  Muldoon  should  be  shyer 
than  Father  Innocent  about  meeting  Mrs.  Macfadden. 
He  supposed  it  must  be  part  of  his  grandeur.  He  felt 
that  the  people  who  were  not  too  grand  to  know  him 
might  be  too  grand  to  know  his  mother.  He  could  not 
quite  see  even  that  strange  old  bird  the  Marchesa  della 
Venasalvatica,  settling  down  for  a  brief  hour  at  Pleasant 
Street.  He  could  not  picture  her  in  his  mother's  com- 
pany, pleased  as  she  had  been  with  his.  This  thought 
did  not  shock  him :  he  had  no  sentimental  feeling  about 
his  mother.  She  had  stifled  it  in  his  infancy.  It  would 
have  distressed  him  to  hear  that  she  was  in  want,  and  he 
might  not  have  enjoyed  his  meals,  knowing  that  she 
starved;  but  he  had  no  wish  ever  to  see  her,  not  even 
when  he  thought  wistfully  of  the  agreeable  hours  under 
the  rafters  at  her  house  in  Pleasant  Street.  Now  that 
Father  Innocent  was  dead,  and  he  knew  the  manner  of 
his  death,  he  felt  growing  within  him  a  horror  of  all  that 
had  been  connected  with  his  first  thoughts,  wherein  the 
little  priest  alone  had  symbolised  goodness,  wisdom,  and 
beauty. 


MR.  MACARTHY  AT  HOME  319 

By  the  same  post  which  brought  Father  Muldoon's 
ultimatum  came  a  letter  from  Mr.  O'Meagher  saying 
that  his  wife  was  gone  to  the  country  to  find  comfort 
with  her  family,  "  or  worse,"  and  he  would  be  glad  if 
Adam  cared  to  come  and  cheer  his  loneliness  at  Sandy 
Cove.  Adam  jumped  at  the  prospect,  and  Mr.  Behre 
approved,  but  pointed  out  that  the  question  of  Adam's 
guardianship  had  better  be  settled  first,  lest  the  enemy 
should  steal  a  march  on  them.  "  Mr.  O'Meagher,  I  had 
hoped,  would  have  done  this,  but  he  seems  inclined  to 
the  habit  of  procrastination.  I  think  the  man  to  help  us 
is  the  great  Macarthy." 

"  The  white-haired  old  gentleman  ?  "  Adam  exclaimed. 
"The  white-haired  gentleman,"  declared  his  host.  "I 
think  Mr.  O'Meagher  will  surely  be  of  my  opinion  in 
that." 

And  Mr.  O'Meagher  was.  So  it  was  arranged  that  on 
the  following  Sunday,  ere  Father  Muldoon's  ultimatum 
had  yet  expired,  Adam  and  his  two  protectors  should 
lunch  with  Mr.  Macarthy  at  his  rooms  in  Mount  joy 
Square. 

They  were  rooms  of  a  sort  Adam  had  never  seen  be- 
fore :  a  house  within  a  house.  The  outer  shell  was  that 
of  one  of  the  larger  dwellings  on  the  north  side  of  the 
square,  on  this  fine  March  day  bathed  in  sunshine,  though 
a  bitter  east  wind  blew  up  Fitzgibbon  Street,  and  one  was 
glad  to  get  off  the  steps  under  cover  of  the  hall  door. 
The  maid  who  opened  did  not  bring  them  upstairs :  Mr. 
Behre  waving  her  politely  back.  When  they  had  passed 
the  flight  above  the  first  floor,  they  were  confronted 


320  ADAM  OF  DUBLIN 

by  an  inner  portal,  with  an  electric  bell  which  Mr.  Behre 
just  touched,  and  there  before  them  stood  Mr.  Macarthy 
himself,  welcoming  them  in.  Adam  thought  he  looked  a 
kindly  old  gentleman,  an  elderly  yet  lively  priest. 

After  that  Adam's  impression  was  one  of  books.  The 
staircase  walls  were  lined  with  them:  the  corridors,  and 
the  rooms,  of  course.  He  had  never  seen  a  bookshop 
so  packed  with  books.  In  the  room  where  they  lunched 
looking  out  over  the  square,  the  sun  shone  on  battalions, 
regiments,  and  brigades  of  them,  pressed  shoulder  to 
shoulder,  rank  on  rank,  not,  however,  to  defy,  but  to  invite 
attack.  Mr.  Macarthy  smiled,  marking  Adam's  eyes, 
alive  with  desire,  chase  round  and  round  the  room. 
"  Guess  how  many,"  he  said. 

"  You  must  have  over  two  thousand  in  this  room," 
said  Adam. 

"Not  far  from  five,  I  fancy,"  his  host  answered. 
"  Want  of  space  compels  me  to  use  double  rows,  a  mortal 
sin  to  smother  the  dear  things,  but  what's  a  poor  fellow 
to  do?  I  can't  hang  them  on  the  ceiling  or  carpet  the 
floor  with  them  ....  That  was  a  good  guess  of 
yours.  I  congratulate  you  on  the  eye  of  a  born  libra- 
rian." 

Adam  flushed.  Mr.  Macarthy's  praise  seemed  to  him 
very  sweet;  and  this  although  he  had  not  thought  of 
himself  in  any  relationship  to  books  save  that  of  read- 
ing them. 

"  Mr.  Macfadden  understands  everything  except 
music,"  said  Mr.  Behre. 

"Does  any  one  understand  that  except  yourself?" 


MR.  MACARTHY  AT  HOME  321 

Mr.  Macarthy  returned.  "And  of  course,  fair  Mrs. 
Burns  of  the  Six  Muses  Club." 

"  Mischievous  fellow ! "  Mr.  Behre  laughed,  shaking 
his  fist  at  him. 

"Six  muses,  did  you  say?"  Adam  protested.  "I 
thought  there  were  nine." 

"  It's  a  common  notion  that  there  were  either  three 
or  nine,"  Mr.  Macarthy  agreed,  "  but  as  Mrs.  Burns  made 
them  six,  and  had  her  opinion  stamped  on  the  club  note- 
paper,  the  committee  did  not  feel  justified  in  going  to  the 
expense  of  contradicting  her." 

"  Who  were  her  six  muses  ?  "  Mr.  O'Meagher  inquired ; 
"  Apollo  and  Venus  and  Adonis,  I  take  for  granted,  but 
who  else?" 

"Reeling,  Writhing,  and  Fainting  in  Coils,"  said  the 
host. 

Mr.  Behre  laid  down  his  knife  and  fork.  "From 
whence  have  you  such  nonsense?"  he  demanded. 

"  You'll  find  it  in  the  Second  Prayerbook  of  Edward 
the  Seventh,"  was  Mr.  Macarthy's  assurance. 

Mr.  Behre  appealed  to  Adam  whether  he  ever  had 
heard  such  nonsense,  and  Adam  answered,  as  he  thought 
mighty  dexterously,  "  I  think  Mr.  Macarthy  meant  the 
Second  Prayerbook  of  Edward  the  Sixth."  Whereupon 
the  three  men  laughed  so  that  he  thought  he  had  made 
a  hit,  and  it  was  some  minutes  before  he  realized  that 
they  were  merely  amused  by  his  pert  simplicity.  "  Have 
I  said  something  ridiculous  ?  "  he  asked  good-humoredly, 
despite  his  inward  vexation,  and  so  recovered  the  lost 
ground.  • 


332  ADAM  OF  DUBLIN 

"  Yes,"  said  his  host,  "  you  have.  But  much  may  be 
forgiven  to  possibly  the  only  Belvedere  boy  that  ever 
mentioned  Edward  the  Sixth's  First  or  Second  Cate- 
chism." 

"  I  never  read  it,"  Adam  confessed. 

"  Sure  what  call  would  you  have  to  read  a  book  like 
that  ?  "  murmured  Mr.  O'Meagher  uneasily. 

Mr.  Macarthy  shot  a  glance  at  him,  "  The  cream  of 
Sixteenth  Century  English." 

Mr.  O'Meagher  tossed  his  head.  "  What  does  English 
matter  to  any  one  but  old  John  Bull  ?  " 

"Of  course  Mr.  O'Meagher  has  taught  you  Gaelic?" 
said  Mr.  Macarthy,  but  Adam  felt  that  the  question  was 
not  seriously  meant.  He  said  in  a  low  voice  that  he 
had  not. 

Mr.  Macarthy  kept  his  eyes  on  or  close  to  him.  "  Per- 
haps you  feel,  as  so  many  do,  that  music  and  Gaelic,  and 
so  on,  don't  matter?" 

"  I  feel  music  matters  an  awful  lot,  though  I  don't 
understand  a  bit  of  it,"  Adam  answered,  "and  I'd  like 
to  know  Gaelic  to  please  Mr.  O'Meagher." 

"Which  would  you  rather  learn?"  his  host  pursued. 
And  Adam  with  some  enthusiasm  answered,  "  I'd  rather 
learn  music." 

"  Now  why  do  you  prefer  music  ? "  asked  Mr.  Ma- 
carthy, with  a  glance  at  the  others. 

"  Because  I  could  talk  to  people  all  over  the  world 
in  music,"  he  said,  with  bright  eyes  that  grew  brighter 
as  he  heard  approving  hands  thump  the  table. 

"Well  said,"  cried  Mr.  O'Meagher.     "That's  poetry 


MR.  MACARTHY  AT  HOME  323 

for  you.  I  won't  deny  the  truth  of  that.  It  beats  me 
that,  when  I  think  of  the  Gaelic.  That's  the  truth." 

"  But  it  is  of  limited  truth,"  said  Herr  Behre.  "  You 
can  only  talk  in  music  to  people  whose  knowledge  of 
music  is  little  greater  or  less  than  your  own." 

Adam's  heart  sank  at  the  thought  of  this  unforeseen 
difficulty.  Life  was  far  too  complicated  for  him  ever 
to  be  able  to  understand  it.  How  did  grown-up  people 
manage  their  affairs?  It  was  a  relief  to  hear  Mr. 
O'Meagher  protest,  "  You  fellows  are  getting  beyond  me. 
What  about  Adam?" 

"  He  holds  the  floor,"  said  their  host.  "  We  must  study 
our  Adam  before  we  can  help  him.  Otherwise  we  fall 
into  the  error  of  the  well-meaning,  limited  Tudor,  who 
assumes  every  one  to  be  such  another  secretion  of  Ptah 
as  himself." 

"  You  will  not  have  me  credit  that  Tudor  believes  in 
Ptah !  "  said  Mr.  Behre. 

"You  will  not  have  me  insist  on  the  limitations  of 
your  humorismus,"  returned  their  host. 

Mr.  Behre  looked  at  Adam,  "  You  see  he  has  put  me 
in  the  corner  for  a  stupid  fellow.  Is  he  not  more  to 
be  feared  than  Tudor  ?  " 

"  I  can't  respect  even  you,  Behre,  when  you  nod,"  said 
Mr.  Macarthy.  "But  neither  do  I  ask  you  to  respect 
me.  That  way  lies  stagnation." 

"  I  quite  agree,"  said  Mr.  O'Meagher.  "  You  have  to 
pretend  to  respect  acquaintances,  but  it  destroys  the 
value  of  friendship." 

"  No  man  of  my  temperament  could  have  a  friend  he 


324  ADAM  OF  DUBLIN 

did  not  respect,  or  keep  one  who  was  jealous  of  that 
respect,"  said  Mr.  Macarthy,  adding  to  Adam,  "Does 
all  this  chatter  make  you  feel  sleepy  ?  " 

Adam  answered  spiritedly,  "It's  only  I  can't  follow 
quick  enough.  ...  I  was  just  thinking  .  .  . "  he  paused 
doubtfully. 

"  Go  on,"  said  Mr.  Macarthy.  "  We're  all  here  to  learn 
your  thoughts.  Nothing  interests  us  so  much." 

Encouraged  by  the  six  kind  eyes  focused  upon  him, 
Adam  answered,  "  I  was  thinking  that  Father  Innocent 
Feeley  was  the  only  friend  I  ever  had  " — he  added  with 
a  wistful  smile  that  warmed  as  the  words  passed  his 
lips — "until  to-day." 

Instantly  and  with  one  motion  the  three  men  raised 
their  glasses.  "  Our  better  friendship,"  said  Mr.  Ma- 
carthy, and  the  toast  was  drunk.  Adam  honored  it  in 
tea,  for  Father  Innocent  had  sworn  him  to  Temperance, 
and  no  one  tempted  him  away. 

"You  have  no  friends  of  your  own  age?"  Mr. 
Macarthy  put  the  question. 

Adam  looked  at  Mr.  O'Meagher.  "  Josephine's  a  lot 
older  than  me,  isn't  she?"  he  said,  adding  hurriedly, 
"  And  so  is  Patrick  and  Columba." 

He  heard  Mr.  Macarthy  echo  softly  the  word, 
"  Josephine." 

"They  seem  to  me  a  lot  younger,"  Mr.  O'Meagher 
answered.  "In  fact,  except  Josephine,  they  might  still 
have  bottles.  I  never  knew  such  boys  as  Patrick  and 
Columba,  they're  not  a  bit  like  Josephine,  and  yet  people 
tell  me  they  take  after  me.  ...  It's  a  poor  compliment 


MR.  MACARTHY  AT  HOME  325 

cither  way  ..."  Though  his  effort  was  to  be  jocose, 
his  voice  was  distressed,  and  Mr.  Macarthy  broke  in, 
"  So  Josephine  is  a  friend  of  yours  ?  " 

"I'm  thinking  she  is,"  Mr.  O'Meagher  answered  for 
him.  "  And  a  great  deal  more." 

"  She  has  a  rival,  a  Miss  Brady  .  .  .  and  another  in 
Miss  Burns,"  said  Herr  Behre. 

"  Faith  I  thought  he  had  a  way  with  him,"  muttered 
Mr.  O'Meagher. 

Mr.  Macarthy  seemed  more  than  ever  interested. 
"  You've  made  no  friends  at  Belvedere  ?  " 

Adam  shook  his  head  slowly.  "  No,  sir.  I  never 
quarrel  with  any  one,  but  there's  none  there  likes  what 
I  like.  It  isn't  that  I've  anything  against  the  other 
boys,  but  when  I  try  to  talk  to  them  as  I'm  talking  to 
you,  they  turn  away  as  if  I  was  mad.  .  .  .  I've  heard 
them  say  I  was  mad." 

"I  quite  understand,"  said  his  host.  "When  I  first 
went  to  Belvedere  I  remember  there  was  a  big  boy 
called  Cherry,  who  lived  at  Sidney  Parade  (it  is  always 
what  doesn't  matter  that  is  most  memorable).  He  used 
to  lie  in  wait  for  me  every  day  and  edge  me  up  in  a 
corner  all  alone  to  torment  me  with  the  charge  of  being 
an  old-fashioned  crab.  Although  it's  getting  on  to  forty 
years  since  then,  I've  not  yet  fathomed  what  pleasure  he 
derived  from  this.  Bui;  I  dare  say  the  same  sort  of 
imbecility  goes  on  at  Belvedere  to  this  day." 

"You  may  be  sure  it  does,"  said  Mr.  O'Meagher. 
"  And  will  as  long  as  we  are  governed  by  Dublin  Castle." 

"I  grant  you,"  Mr.  Macarthy  said,  "it's  the  sort  of 


326  ADAM  OF  DUBLIN 

thing  I  can  imagine  Leaper-Carahar  doing  even 
now." 

Mr.  Behre  said,  "The  theory  of  education  in  your 
admirable  country  seems  to  be  that  boys  will  be  im- 
beciles and  the  pedagogues'  business  is  to  change  one 
form  of  imbecility  for  another.  Things  are  still  very  bad 
in  Germany,  but  hardly  so  bad  as  that." 

"  I  think  they're  worse,"  said  Mr.  O'Meagher,  "  though 
I  can't  tell  you  why." 

"  I'll  tell  you  why  you  think  it,"  said  their  host.  "  Be- 
cause as  an  old-fashioned  patriot  you  think  it  your  duty 
to  speak  of  every  country  as  inferior  to  your  own." 

"Surely  that's  better,"  Mr.  O'Meagher  grumbled, 
"  than  treating  your  own  country  as  inferior  to  others  ?  " 

"  I  don't  treat  my  country  as  inferior  to  any  one  other 
country,"  said  Mr.  Macarthy.  "  But  she  is  obviously  in- 
ferior to  all  the  others  put  together.  The  illusion  of 
the  Sinn  Feiners  is  the  illusion  of  dogmatics  and  cranks 
of  all  kinds  that  they  alone  can  read  the  book  of 
life." 

"  I  thought  it  was  your  friend  Ibsen  said,  '  He  is 
strongest  who  stands  alone,' "  Mr.  O'Meagher  retorted, 
with  withering  intent. 

"  I  regret  to  confess  my  friend  Ibsen,  as  you  call  him, 
was  as  conceited  as  Mr.  Gladstone,"  Mr.  Macarthy  an- 
swered airily.  "  It  is  a  fact,  or  seems  to  be  a  fact,  that 
there  are  men  strong  enough  to  stand  alone,  and  it  is  a 
great  temptation  to  the  man  who  thinks  himself  strong 
enough.  But  I  am  confident  that  he  gains  nothing 
from  it," 


MR.  MACARTHY  AT  HOME  327 

"  Except  the  comfort  of  no  fools  to  suffer,"  said  Mr. 
Behre. 

"  If  he  is  to  do  any  good,  he  must  suffer  fools  gladly," 
Mr.  Macarthy  insisted. 

Herr  Behre  sighed,  "  I  agree." 

"  Nevertheless,"  said  their  host,  "  I  apologize  for  allow- 
ing myself  to  express  such  downright  opinions." 

Mr.  O'Meagher  still  demurred.  "  All  the  same,  if  you 
allow  yourself  no  enthusiasm,  where  are  you?" 

"I  will  allow  myself  to  tell  you  where  without  en- 
thusiasm you  need  never  be,"  Mr.  Macarthy  replied,  "  and 
that  is  in  a  lunatic  asylum." 

"After  all,"  said  Mr.  O'Meagher,  with  the  air  of  a 
plunger,  "  how  do  we  know  that  the  man  in  the  lunatic 
asylum  is  not  far  wiser  than  ourselves.  .  .  .  What's 
that  poem  of  Dowson's  .  .  . 

"  *  Know  we  what  dreams  divine 

Lift  his  long  laughing  reverie  like  enchanted  wine 
And  make  his  melancholy  germane  with  the  stars  ? ' " 

" "  We  don't  know  it,"  said  Mr.  Mcarthy.  "  But,  speak- 
ing generally,  we  do  know  that  his  wisdom  is  so  violently 
opposed  to  our  common  sense  that  the  two  cannot  rub 
along  side  by  side  without  quarrel,  and  expediency  de- 
mands that  we  control  the  few  rather  than  the  many. 
I  rarely  walk  a  mile  from  this  house  that  I  do  not 
see  my  beloved  fellow  countrymen  do  something  so  re- 
pugnant to  my  better  self  that  I  itch  to  set  them  right; 
but  my  common  sense  tells  me  that  none  of  my  fellow 


328  ADAM  OF  DUBLIN 

citizens,  no  appreciable  number,  would  share  my  feelings. 
If  I  were  with  the  Marchesa  I  would  absolutely  have  to 
conceal  from  her  the  things  which  distress  us  both,  lest 
she  should  raise  a  riot  with  worse  consequences  than  the 
original  evil." 

"  Oh,  indeed  the  old  Marchesa  is  quite  impossible," 
Mr.  O'Meagher  cheerfully  admitted.  "  But  sure  she's 
just  out  for  pure  divilment.  I  think  most  of  us  run  now 
if  we  see  her  coming." 

"  I,  too,  am  afraid  of  her,"  Herr  Behre  chimed  in. 
"  I  dread  to  hurt  her  feelings ;  for  I  think  she  is,  or  can 
be,  sincere.  .  .  .  Her  painting  had  at  one  time  some 
promise." 

"The  man  she  was  in  love  with  .  .  ."  began  Mr. 
O'Meagher. 

"  Which  of  them  ?  "  broke  in  Herr  Behre  grimly. 

Their  host  forestalled  reply  by  saying  carelessly,  "  Do 
you  mind,  Adam,  if  we  smoke  ?  " 


CHAPTER  XXXI 
THE  DEAD  LOVER 

ADAM  had  not  been  brought  up  to  object  to  smoking. 
He  was  surprised  at  his  host  condescending  to  consult 
him  in  the  matter.  But  more  than  that  he  was  dis- 
tressed at  the  thread  of  Mr.  O'Meagher's  conversation 
being  cut.  He  thought  the  Marchesa  an  uncommonly 
interesting  old  lady.  He  found  it  queer  to  think  she 
had  been  in  love,  and  more  than  once.  .  .  .  Were  old 
ladies  as  fickle  as  young  girls?  True,  she  must  have 
been  a  young  girl  in  the  past;  before  he  was  born:  the 
time  of  no  aeroplanes  nor  railway  trains,  the  time  of 
Napoleon  and  Pontius  Pilate.  He  tried  to  imagine  the 
Marchesa  as  a  little  girl,  a  compound  of  Caroline  Brady 
and  Miss  Fallen  with  an  English  accent,  his  notion  of 
an  English  accent.  He  saw  nothing  of  Josephine  in 
the  Marchesa.  .  .  .  And  yet.  ...  He  heard  his  name 
repeated,  and  awoke  to  find  the  conversation  turned 
again  on  himself. 

The  upshot  of  it  was  that  Mr.  Macarthy  brought  him 
over  to  the  window  and  holding  his  chin  up  in  the  sun- 
light, said,  as  they  looked  in  each  other's  eyes,  "  Do  you 
feel  you  could  trust  me  as  you  trusted  Father  Innocent  ?  " 

This  was  a  startling  question  to  come  from  the  man 
Adam  had  hated  for  that  he  had  seen  a  photograph  of 
329 


330  ADAM  OF  DUBLIN 

him  with  Josephine  sitting  in  his  lap.  But  he  did  not 
recognize  this  white-haired,  priestly  personage  as  the 
man  in  the  photograph.  .  .  .  Besides,  anyhow,  Josephine 
was  going  to  be  a  nun.  ...  he  realized  that  Mr. 
Macarthy  was  taken  aback  by  his  silence.  The  latter 
went  on,  "  I  don't  want  you  to  trust  me  without  question, 
of  course  .  .  .  but  you  must  trust  me  so  far  that  I 
can  trust  you  in  turn  .  :  .  I  mean,  to  do  nothing 
against  my  wishes  behind  my  back." 

Adam  drew  a  long  breath,  and  then  answered  firmly, 
"  I  could  trust  you.  I'm  quite  sure  of  that." 

Mr.  Macarthy  turned  to  the  others,  "  You  fellows 
have  heard  what  he  says.  Do  you  approve  ?  " 

Said  Mr.  Behre,  "  I  have  no  shadow  of  doubt." 

"  I  suppose  it's  the  best  thing  that  could  happen,"  Mr. 
O'Meagher  said  more  slowly,  "  though  I'd  have  thought 
you  were  too  cautious  to  take  the  risk  ?  " 

"  I  am  interested,"  was  Mr.  Macarthy's  only  answer 
to  this  point.  He  turned  to  Adam  again.  "  You  clearly 
understand  that  it  is  a  question  of  accepting  me,  a  man 
of  whom  you  know  little  or  nothing,  in  the  place  of  an 
absolute  guardian,  with  as  much  control  over  you  or 
more  than  ever  your  father  had?" 

"D'ye  think  you'll  be  able  to  arrange  that?"  asked 
Mr.  O'Meagher. 

"  I  think  I  can,"  said  Mr.  Macarthy.  "  If  Adam  tells 
us  now  definitely  that  he  wishes  it,  knowing  that  the 
probable  alternative  will  be  Father  Muldoon  and 
Belvedere." 

"  If  there  was  no  Muldoon,  I'd  wish  it  anyhow,"  cried 


THE  DEAD  LOVER  331 

Adam,  though  his  decision  was  probably  strengthened 
by  the  dread  word  closing  the  sentence. 

"Very  well,  then,"  Mr.  Macarthy  said.  "We'll  get 
to  work  at  once.  If  you,  Behre,  can  spare  the  time, 
you  might  take  our  friend  here  over  to  the  National 
Gallery  or  Harcourt  Street  and  show  him  some  pic- 
tures. .  .  .  Better  the  National  Gallery  for  a  beginning. 
And  don't  be  too  severe  in  your  criticism  of  the  Italians. 
The  great  thing  is  to  get  his  interest  wakened.  .  .  .  Pic- 
tures bore  you  by  any  chance,  Adam?" 

"  Pictures  wouldn't  bore  me,"  said  Adam.  "  At  least 
I've  seen  so  few.  Only  in  the  shops  and  some  of  those 
in  the  Club  on  Stephen's  Green.  ...  I  couldn't  rightly 
understand  them." 

"That  you  needn't  worry  about,"  his  host  declared. 
"  Mrs.  Burns  is  the  only  person  who  does,  and  she  can't, 
or  I  should  say  will  not,  condescend  to  explain." 

"  Did  she  paint  them  ?  "  Adam  asked. 

Mr.  Macarthy  shook  his  white  head.  "  Nobody  painted 
them,"  he  said,  and  left  it  at  that.  "  The  National  Gal- 
lery is  the  place  for  you,  and  Mr.  Behre  can  help  you 
there.  It's  three  o'clock  now.  He  will  bring  you  back 
here  when  you're  tired.  We  dine  at  seven.  .  .  .  No,  it's 
Sunday,  supper  at  eight.  If  I'm  not  in  when  you  come 
back,  just  make  yourselves  at  home." 

As  Adam  left  the  room  with  Herr  Behre  he  heard 
Mr.  Macarthy  at  the  telephone  asking  for  Killiney  20. 
There  was  something  in  the  sound  of  the  voice  that  con- 
vinced him  he  had  arrived  at  the  most  interesting  day 
of  his  life.  And  yet  he  had  thought  the  same  thing  years 


332  ADAM  OF  DUBLIN 

ago  when  he  heard  Father  Muldoon  say,  "  Ring  up  .  .  . " 
he  forgot  the  number.  How  completely  his  outlook  on 
life  had  changed  since  then !  Everything  to-day  wore  an 
alluring  air:  he  seemed  to  understand  things  that  had 
been  incomprehensible  before.  And  to  understand  was  to 
enjoy. 

Nevertheless  the  National  Gallery  puzzled  him,  for  he 
wanted  to  look  at  the  pictures  which  most  graphically 
illustrated  anecdotes,  whether  of  ancient  miracles  or 
modern  slaughters,  and  his  mentor  found  most  of  these 
pictures  unendurable.  "  It  is  not  the  province  of  art 
to  report  the  details  of  human  folly,"  he  would  repeat. 
"  It  is  the  function  of  art  to  transcend  our  wisdom  or 
at  least  to  ease  our  mind  by  beauty  of  decoration." 

This  was  to  tell  Adam  something  which  for  years  to 
come  he  was  unable  to  understand:  to  him  the  term 
Decorative  Painting  meant  the  painting  applied  to  your 
house  by  an  approved  firm  of  painters  and  decorators: 
these,  he  knew,  trenched  on  the  domain  of  academic  art 
as  in  the  case  of  the  Italian  ceiling  seascapes  at  Belve- 
dere, wherein  he  had  gone  dream  voyages.  He  supposed 
that  any  competent  house  painter  could  furnish  you  with 
the  like,  if  you  preferred  them  to  whitewash.  He  liked 
the  pictures  at  the  National  Gallery  as  a  whole,  but  found 
Herr  Behre's  exegesis  of  them  not  a  little  boring.  Per- 
haps any  one  who  did  not  share  the  musician's  views 
might  have  done  the  same. 

As  they  came  out  through  the  portrait  gallery,  Herr 
Behre  waved  his  hand  contemptuously :  "  Paintings  of 
office-boys  by  would-be  office-boys,"  he  cried.  "  Nothing 


THE  DEAD  LOVER  333 

you  might  not  see  better  done  in  any  town  hall  in  Eu- 
rope. To  me  the  most  tolerable  of  the  lot  is  this  early 
portrait  by  our  friend  the  Marchesa.  .  .  .  You  are 
struck  by  it,  eh?  It  goes  without  saying  that  it  is  not 
good.  Every  fault  of  the  amateur.  .  .  .  But  neither  is 
it  so  very  bad  as  the  others,  most  of  them,  are.  How- 
ever poor,  the  work  attempts  to  show  an  interesting  man 
as  seen  by  an  interested  woman.  It  is  a  document :  there 
is  some  little  temperament  in  it.  And  therefore  it  is  a 
work  of  art." 

Adam  gazed  at  the  portrait  as  he  had  never  gazed 
at  any  picture:  it  represented  somewhat  flatly  and 
sketchily  a  man  of  early  middle  age  with  merry  eyes 
and  a  cynical  mouth,  jauntily  leaning  against  what,  thanks 
to  the  Marchesa's  impressionism,  might  have  been  taken 
for  the  wreck  of  Falstaff's  buck-basket,  but  Herr  Behre 
suggested  that  it  could  be  the  car  of  a  balloon.  On 
the  frame  he  read  the  legend :  "  Major  Sir  David  Byron- 
Quinn,  Bart.,  Poet,  Aeronaut,  and  Soldier.  B.  Kenmare, 
1847;  killed  in  the  Soudan,  1885.  By  Daphne  Page. 
Presented  by  the  Artist." 

Finding  him  so  enthralled  by  the  picture,  Mr.  Behre 
looked  from  him  to  it  and  back  again.  "  Ach !  "  he  mur- 
mured banteringly,  "  I  see  what  it  is  interests  you.  Ro- 
mance, always  romance.  You  think  the  baronet  was  a 
little  like  yourself?  And  so  he  was.  But  look  at  the 
date:  he  was  a  contemporary  of  me  and  the  Marchesa. 
Older  even  than  I,  as  I  am  older  than  she.  And  thanks 
to  the  Mahdi,  or  the  Khalifa,  or  the  Mad  Mullah,  or  some 
such  other  captive  of  the  English  bow  and  spear,  he  was 


334  ADAM  OF  DUBLIN 

dead  perhaps  twenty  years  before  you  were  born.  You 
may  dismiss  it  from  your  mind,  Mr.  Macfadden,  he  was 
not  your  father." 

"I  know  he  wasn't  my  father,  or  anyway  like  my 
father,"  Adam  answered,  still  much  impressed.  "  I  re- 
member my  father  only  too  well.  And  it  never  struck 
me  that  he  was  like  myself.  But  the  queer  thing  is, 
and  in  a  queer  way  it  is.  ...  I  can't  in  the  least  account 
for  it  ...  he  looks  to  me  like  my  godfather  with  his 
whiskers  off  and  his  Sunday  clothes  on  him.  " 

"Your  godfather?"  echoed  Herr  Behre,  and  as  they 
passed  out  into  the  day  fell  to  whistling  the  Danse 
Macabre  which  he  sustained  with  hardly  a  break  all  the 
way  home  to  Mount  joy  Square. 

There  they  found  supper  ready;  but  their  host  and 
Mr.  O'Meagher  not  yet  returned.  At  eight  o'clock  Mr. 
Behre  bade  Adam  sit  down  and  eat.  He  had  well-nigh 
finished  when  the  others  came  in  weary  but  content. 

"You  can  sleep  quietly  to-night,  Adam,"  said  Mr. 
Macarthy.  "  If  you  ever  go  back  to  Belvedere  it  will  not 
be  in  the  reign  of  any  Tudor." 

Adam  jumped  for  joy.  "  Are  you  to  be  my  guardian  ?  " 
he  asked. 

His  host  nodded.  "With  Mr.  O'Meagher  here  and 
your  highly  meritorious  godfather,  Mr.  O'Toole." 

Mr.  O'Meagher  tossed  his  head  and  looked  sly.  "  Wise 
gentleman,  Mr.  Byron  O'Toole;  knows  to  a  nicety  on 
which  side  his  bread  is  buttered,  likes  plenty  of  it  too, 
and  I  don't  blame  him." 

"  No,"  said  Mr.  Macarthy  moodily.    "  He  is  scarcely  to 


THE  DEAD  LOVER  335 

blame  for  being  what  he  is.  Byron's  a  hard  name  to 
be  given  to  any  man." 

"Byron,  Byron,"  Mr.  Behre  rolled  the  name  on  his 
tongue.  "I  saw  on  the  frame  of  that  fellow  Byron- 
Quinn's  portrait  by  the  Marchesa  that  they  call  him  a 
poet.  Has  anybody  ever  read  his  poetry  ?  " 

"  Everybody's  read  the  '  Dead  Lover,'  "  Mr.  O'Meagher 
said,  and  commenced  solemnly  to  recite: — 

"  When  that  I  was  alive  there  were  women  that  loved  me ; 
When  that  I  was  alive  they  loved  only  me, 
And  that  I  could  do  no  wrong  was  the  burden  of  the 

song 
Of  the  dear  good  women  that  loved  me. 

"  Now  that  I  am  dead  those  good  women  that  loved  me 
Are  sought  by  other  lovers  happily,  O  happily, 
And  in  my  narrow  bed  I  can  hear  as  I  lie  dead 
Little  feet  that  I  have  kissed  dance  lightly  over  me. 

"  Yet  though  in  my  grave  I  lie,  I  laugh  deliciously 
At  the  foolish  living  lovers  that  are  dancing  over  me — 
For  the  Queens  of  all  their  toasts  are  the  cold  and  care- 
less ghosts 

Of  the  women  that  have  loved  me  and  are  lying  dead 
with  me." 

"That's  fine,"  gasped  Adam;  "I  like  that." 
"  Do  you  ?  "  said  Mr.  Macarthy  politely.    "  I  had  rather 
hoped  you  would  agree  with  me  in  finding  it  nonsense." 


336  ADAM  OF  DUBLIN 

Adam's  eyes  filled  with  tears  at  the  thought  he  had 
said  something  foolish.  "  I'm  sorry  I  don't  know  any 
better,"  he  said. 

"  You  needn't  be  sorry,"  said  Mr.  O'Meagher.  "  It's 
Mr.  Macarthy  is  wanting  in  taste,  not  you." 

"  Quite  so,"  said  Mr.  Macarthy. 

Mr.  Behre  turned  to  him.  "  You  think  the  man  was 
not  a  real  poet  ?  " 

"  No  more  than  Owen  Meredith,"  said  Mr.  Macarthy. 
"  His  verse  is  just  a  trifle  better  than  the  Marchesa's 
painting.  Temperament  without  application.  The  last 
sonnet  is  unique,  but  that  doesn't  make  it  poetry." 

"  The  one  they  say  he  wrote  the  night  he  died?  "  Mr. 
O'Meagher  asked.  "  Do  you  remember  it  ?  " 

Their  host  nodded.  "  I  used  to  repeat  it  twice  a  day ; 
that  was  when  I  was  young  and  knew  no  better." 

"  If  there's  no  reason  you  shouldn't,  I'd  like  to  hear  you 
say  it,"  Mr.  Behre  said. 

Rather  tamely,  as  Adam  felt,  Mr.  Macarthy  spoke  these 
lines : — 

THE  LAST  PENITENCE 

"Here  in  the  dark  of  the  desert  that  ultimate  night 
That  hangs  upon  Africa,  drowning  the  memory  of  day, 
Making  Egyptian  darkness  itself  as  broad  light, 
I  kneel  me  in  mystery  to  pray. 
Not  to  Osiris  I  turn,  the  sleek  lord  of  the  sun : 
Nor  to  old  Jupiter,  jovial  and  hotheaded  god : 
Nor  to  Jehovah,  the  bilious,  meanspirited  one. 
I  seek  not  a  heavenly  crown  and  I  fear  not  the  rod. 


THE  DEAD  LOVER  337 

Let  them  ride  their  celestial  hippogriffs  over  my 

corse   .    .    . 

Until  my  soul  die,  the  smile  of  disdain  shall  not  fade. 
Not  for  the  Gods  have  I  a  thought  of  remorse. 
Only  of  him  who  may  follow  me  am  I  afraid.  .  .  . 
If  thou  art  he,  I  beg  thee  abject,  to  forgive 
Him  that  lies  dead  for  the  folly  that  called  thee  to 
live." 

There  was  silence  as  the  words  stilled.  Adam  growing 
anxious  to  break  it,  said,  "That's  a  queer  sort  of 
poem.  .  .  .  Did  he  die  after  writing  that  ?  " 

"Twenty-four  hours  after  that,"  replied  his  host 
somewhat  grimly.  "All  that  was  left  of  my  cousin, 
David  Byron-Quinn  was  the  heel  of  one  boot  and  the 
rim  of  his  eyeglass." 

"  I  forgot  he  was  your  cousin,"  said  Mr.  O'Meagher. 

Herr  Behre  was  pensive.  "  I  don't  see  a  man  with  a 
glass  in  his  eye  writing  that," 

"  Faith,"  said  Mr.  O'Meagher,  with  a  little  laugh,  "  he 
must  be  wishing  now  that  he  hadn't  written  it." 

Adam  protested,  "  But  he's  dead ! "  He  made  a  cal- 
culation :  "  Thirty  years." 

Mr.  O'Meagher's  voice  dropped  to  the  sepulchral. 
"  Sure  what  is  thirty  years  but  the  smallest  drop  in  the 
bucket  of  eternity !  " 

"  Is  it  as  much  as  that?  "  Mr.  Macarthy  broke  in  coldly 
and  Adam  shuddered  at  the  thought  of  the  uncounted 
seons  that  stretched  away  before  and  behind  his  little  life. 

Then  he  felt  Mr.  Macarthy's  hand  on  his  arm,  and 


338  ADAM  OF  DUBLIN 

heard  his  pleasant  voice  in  his  ear,  "  You  take  care  of 
Time,  my  dear,  and  Eternity  will  take  care  of  itself." 

And  even  as  he  heard  this,  he  heard  also  the  echo  of 
his  own  small  voice  piping  through  Stephen's  Green  the 
ancient  news :  "  Bloody  Battle  in  Kordofan.  .  .  .  Awful 
End  of  an  Irish  Baronet !  "  and  he  remembered,  wonder- 
ing the  while  why  in  all  Dublin  no  one  cared  for  the 
fate  of  Sir  David  Byron-Quinn  a  single  copper,  save  one 
queer  lady,  who  cared  half  a  crown. 

Now  he  began  to  understand:  the  queer  lady  had 
come  with  her  bicycle  out  of  the  very  house  in  Stephen's 
Green  where  this  week  he  had  been  fated  to  meet  and 
be  caressed  by  her.  She  was  no  other  than  the  lady 
with  the  strange  Italian  name  .  .  .  the  Marchesa  della 
Venasalvatica  .  .  .  born  Lady  Daphne  Page,  who  once 
upon  a  time  had  loved  the  mad  baronet  (perhaps  in  the 
same,  not  very  sensible,  sort  of  way  as  he  loved  Caro- 
line Brady)  and  painted  the  picture  of  him  he  had  seen 
to-day  in  the  National  Gallery.  .  .  .  And  as  queer  as 
the  Marchesa  was  the  National  Gallery  itself,  with  all  the 
pictures  and  statues  of  women  with  no  clothes  on.  .  .  . 
He  wondered  if  Father  Innocent  had  ever  seen  such  a 
place.  In  real  life  you  never  saw  women  with  no  clothes 
on.  .  .  .  Yes,  he  had  once,  at  Bray  (almost,  if  not  quite, 
by  accident)  at  the  bathing  place.  He  had  not  been  fa- 
vorably impressed,  even  as  a  diagram  he  could  scarcely 
trace  the  resemblance  to  what  he  had  seen  to-day.  Life 
as  you  saw  it  in  Art  was  beautiful,  but  not  as  you  saw 
it  in  reality.  .  .  .  And  yet  Caroline's  eyes  and  Josephine's 
hair,  something  in  the  carriage  of  both?  It  always  trou- 


THE  DEAD  LOVER  339 

bled  him  to  think  of  either  walking  towards  him.  .  .  . 
Wasn't  he  the  silly  fellow  to  be  troubled  by  a  thing  like 
that?  .  .  .  Perhaps  once  upon  a  time  that  mad  Irish 
baronet  had  been  troubled  to  see  the  Marchesa,  that  had 
been  Daphne  Page,  walking  towards  him.  ..."  She 
walks  in  beauty."  .  .  .  That  was  a  quotation  Mr.  Flood, 
S.J.,  had  once  inadvertently  let  fall.  .  .  .  Had  Mr.  Flood 
seen  some  one  walk  in  beauty  ...  or  run,  maybe,  as  the 
old  Marchesa  perhaps  once  ran  to  her  mad  lover?  .  .  . 
Had  his  mother  run  to  Malachy  Macfadden  before  he 
was  born?  .  .  .  He  shivered  with  a  chill  fit  of  loathing. 

He  shivered,  too,  to  think  of  those  miserable  days  of 
infancy  when  he  called  the  death  of  Sir  David  Byron- 
Quinn  through  Stephen's  Green,  and  the  death  of  Queen 
Victoria  in  Saricville  Street,  though  they  seemed  less 
hideous  now  than  the  hours  at  Belvedere  overhung  by 
the  shadow  of  crazy,  crafty  Tudor.  All  that  was  done 
with  now,  for  he  felt  that  with  Mr.  Macarthy,  he  was 
safe  from  priest  or  layman's  spite.  Drawing  a  long 
breath  of  relief,  he  lolled  back  in  his  arm-chair  the  first 
truly  pleasant  seat  his  little  body  had  ever  rested  in.  For 
the  O'Meaghers'  house  at  Sandy  Cove,  though  a  kindly, 
was  not  a  cozy  one.  Mrs.  O'Meagher  was,  he  was  old 
enough  to  realize,  a  restless  spirit  beneath  her  air  of 
tranquillity,  and  her  very  beds  were  too  conscientious 
even  for  repose.  He  had  only  loved  her  house  because  it 
held  Josephine,  the  ultimate  haven  of  his  desire. 

Little  hope  had  he  ever  of  reaching  that  port,  but  at 
least  he  was  now  in  a  harbor  of  refuge  where  he  could 
ride  out  one  storm  near  sinking  him,  and  in  charge  of 


340  ADAM  OF  DUBLIN 

a  pilot,  who,  he  was  confident,  had  skill  and  goodwill 
to  take  him  as  close  to  his  Brazil  as  time  and  tide  would 
suffer  him  to  go. 

And  here  for  the  nonce  our  vision  of  Adam  fades: 
he  melts  into  that  infinity  which  to  our  finite  eyes  is  gray, 
but  radiant  in  the  all-seeingness  of  God:  the  laughing 
God  whose  humor  had  decreed  that  Adam,  called  Mac- 
fadden,  and  his  beloved  Josephine  should  both  spring 
from  the  seed  of  that  great  lover,  David  Byron-Quinn, 
whose  soul  had  vanished  in  the  heart  of  Africa  and  his 
body  turned  to  dust  strewn  in  the  sands  of  Kordofan,  and 
at  certain  changes  of  the  moon  whelming  the  desert 
traveler,  as  in  life  he  had  whelmed  other  voyagers,  in 
the  clip  of  the  Simoon. 

Here  ends  the  story  called  Adam  of  Dublin.  The 
author  will  tell  another  story  called  Adam  and  Caroline. 


THE  END 


> 


UC  SOUTHERN  REGIONAL  LIBRARY  FACILITY 


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